


Bound-Servant Watson

by LokiBitch07



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Beating, Bondage, Collars, Eventually it get's better, Explicit Sexual Content, Happyish ending (I think), M/M, Multi, Plotty, Porn, Slavery, Threesome - F/M/M, Vampire Irene Adler, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock, Vampire-donor bonding, dark!Sherlock, major dub-con / non-con, mention of underage abuse, so therefore non-con drug use?, vampire bites are kind of like drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 91,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiBitch07/pseuds/LokiBitch07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Hamish Watson is 28, the vampires rise.<br/>There are new rules and restrictions for humans.<br/>John joins the resistance for the fight to regain the freedom of all mankind.<br/>Vampire Sherlock identifies John as a special blood donor, and decides that he wants to claim him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And it begins....

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I want to work this story over and I need a BETA-READER or someone that will help me clean up the grammar and general mistakes. Warning: I am erratic and not very reliable. If you are interested please message below and we can share info on tumblr. 
> 
> Ok everyone, here is some dark!Vamplock for you.  
> And me.  
> Could not get it out of my head, really.  
> Heavily influenced by this wonderful picture by Reapersun, who is my unsung hero. http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/11901188602/this-started-as-a-halloween-costumes-fanart  
> So there. 
> 
> Please note while there will be loads of plot for now, there is going to be explicit sex later on, and there will be non-con. Lot's of it.  
> So be warned….
> 
> Now, I do not work with betas - it is a bit of a personal preference and I know that there are mistakes. If you have problems with that, please don't read.  
> Comments and feedback (positive) are always welcome!
> 
> Thanks and enjoy. 
> 
>  UPDATE: This story has been translated into Chinese by peanutbear, you can read it here: http://www.allwatson.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=1242&extra=page%3D1.
> 
> UPDATE: Hey, if you are here for Johnlock and ONLY Johnlock, you can probably skip chapters 20-23 (The story of Sherlock and Irene), which concentrate only on the relationship of those two. Careful though, Irene is important for the personality Sherlock portrays later. 
> 
> x

John Hamish Watson was a child of the seventies, the time of hippies and flower power, disco and Warhol, make love not war.  
He was too young to remember the Vietnam War or the economic struggle of the time, and he was happily raised by his parents, fighting with his sister Harry as long as he could remember, growing into an awkward teen and finally into a slightly less awkward adult. 

When John was 28, the Vampires rose. 

He remembered the day very clearly.  
Hell, everyone did. 

 

_Where were you on Bloody Christmas?_

 

The vampires had chosen the 25th of December, when most people in the Western world were at home, happy and warm, with their families. 

John had been at his parents place, a tense affair of too much alcohol and bickering between Harry and John like every year, with their father shouting at them and their mother reduced to tears by the end of the night.  
It had always been like that, no matter how hard they tried each and every Christmas to pull themselves together. 

They has met on the 24th, and the following day John had joined his parents in front of the telly, to watch the traditional Christmas speech by the queen while Harry had left for a couple of hours to be with her girlfriend. 

John had risen to fetch himself a glass of wine, it was only the afternoon, but he had time off work and decided not to care.  
Nowhere to go, not tonight.  
He sipped the aromatic red in the kitchen, allowing himself to relax before he would join his parents in front of the telly once more. 

He was staring out the window, watching absentmindedly how large snowflakes were settling on the window sill, when he heard the scream from the living room.  
A scream of utter horror, of disbelieve. 

John had dropped his glass.  
Instinct, really.  
He had rushed to his mother, ideas of an accident, burglars or fire streaming into his consciousness. 

His parents were frozen in front of the TV, eyes bugging, his mother whimpering under her breath, a small and horrifying sound that he had never heard before. 

And then he turned to the TV and saw it. 

The Queen. 

It was the usual picture, the queen sitting in a luxurious, gold-clad room in Buckingham Palace, in front of a large Christmas tree, this year wearing a light yellow and brown ensemble, as fashion-forward as everyone knew her.  
However, there was a man in the picture that did not belong. 

The tall, brown-haired man was crouching behind her, her old neck bent backwards, eyes wide in horror as a man was biting her - _biting her, he was biting the queen of England on National Television_ \- and then the man pulled his head back, taking a large chunk of flesh along, and there was a gurgle of a scream and the man laughed, and then guards started shooting….

The telly went black. 

There was the continuous, annoying beeping sound, and then the screen flickered, showing the ‘I am sorry, we are experiencing technical difficulties’ screen that John had not seen in ages.  
Over the sound he could hear the silent sobs that spilled between his mothers’s fingers, her eyes ripped wide, staring at the telly, breathing too fast…too fast…

He ripped himself back into reality as he heard his mother struggle to breathe and went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.  
“It’s ok Mum, breathe, you are hyperventilating, it is not good for your blood pressure, please breathe deeply and slowly now! It is fine, it was just an error, don’t worry, please…”  
His eyes never left her face, and as she did not manage to turn her head, he knew she was in shock. 

Mr. Watson – the older – started to mumble under his breath – “must have been a trick…” and John turned towards him, his hands continuing to steady his mother.  
“Dad, fetch me some ice from the kitchen and a plastic bag. Hurry, please.”

While he waited and talked to his mother in his calm, doctor voice as he called it, his mind continued to go back, not able to supress the one thing that made no sense to him.  
The teeth of the man.  
His slightly too fast, jerky movements that made him look out of place….like a video played on fast-forward.  
And his teeth had been sharp, and bloody, and …. Did he really murder the queen on live television? Must have been a trick…Must have been….publicity stunt…WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON?

 

Of course it had been true.  
Worldwide, over the next couple of days a few country leaders and religious figures of importance were murdered, but most of them – MOST OF THEM – actually calmly held speeches, outing themselves to be vampires, in power already.  
They all stood in front of the cameras, addressing the world and informing them in a low, mesmerizing voice of their existence.

The message was always the same. 

“We have risen.  
We are vampires.  
We mean no harm to human kind.  
But there is a need of changes to the way of live you have been leading.  
Humans have spent their time destroying the world for centuries, and it has been decided to put a stop to it.  
Start with a clean slate.”

It turned out not a single country, not a single religion or major institution was untouched. 

John was taking care of his mother who had not stopped crying for days, and sat with his father in front of the telly when a speech to all humans - _Good Lord, that’s what they called them now, humans, how very strange…_ was announced, and everyone was asked – No, ordered - to listen in. 

The man in the television, the new leader of England, tall, seemingly in his mid 40s, with brown hair and a cruel little smile had addressed them in perfect boarding-school English that was very easy to listen to.  
Almost hypnotizing.  
But what had been discussed was….preposterous.

The new leader had told them that vampires had been part of human society since humanity had existed. He explained how many influential men and women of their time had been vampires, had been in power and lead humans through wars and peace.  
Helped rule the earth. 

Napoleon, Caesar, Dschingis Khan, Margaret Thatcher, Henry IV, just to name a few.

He continued in a caml voice that it had been decided that humans were evolved enough to be able to work alongside with vampires, that they were deemed intelligent enough to understand the necessity of strong rulers governing their affairs. 

The vampire had paused to let the words sink in. 

Then he cleared his throat and continued: there would be changes to the way of live people were used to, and that not all of them may be easy for everyone to understand. 

It made sense in the beginning, the vampire calmly counting down the changes to health support (free health support for everyone, but at the same time there would be a need of mandatory blood and organ donations), no more influences of religion on any kind of governing bodies, general lowering of taxes but also stricter rules for food production, regulation on alcohol intake per person, reduction and finally abolishment of tobacco and legalization but harsh regulation of certain drugs.

John tried to wrap his head around these things, until he told himself that none of them were too invasive, that these things should have been regulated a long time ago, that those changes made sense.  
HE really, really wanted to be all right with what was happening. 

Then the man took another break and looked intently at the screen, before continuing in his calm voice.

Furthermore, from now on, they would make sure that in every leading role within the government, the military, the health care system, corporations and other instances of power there is to be at least one vampire present, depending on the importance of the institution.

As of this moment on, a vampire’s decision or order shall be considered the final and deciding rule in any discussion. This would hold true in all walks of life.  
Older, and therefore deemed wiser, their command would be able to overwrite anything a human had to say. 

Humans will need to apply for the right of large assemblies of more than 15 people, and it shall only be granted in the presence of a governing body.  
Murder to a human being or vampire is as of this moment was punishable with death.  
No exceptions. No trial.

And then….then there was the point that was most shocking to John, even though he should have seen it coming. 

Vampires needed to feed and had to rely on a source of fresh blood.

They would be able to make use of the blood donations, but any vampire in high ranking positions in government or otherwise would as of now have the right to find a suitable blood donor and be able to request their services full time.  
The human chosen would be expected to be available when necessary, and in most cases asked to join the vampire in his or her residence full time.  
Any contact to the outside world could be cut of, depending on the vampire in charge.

The dark-haired man stopped for a moment, to let the words sink in.

A ball of dread clumped deep in John’s stomach.

“We shall, of course, try to choose healthy males and females, between the ages of 18 to 45 to be taken as bond-servants, which currently have no family obligations as to make things easier for all parties involved, but this may not always be possible.  
Everyone of this age is required to sign themselves into the Bond-servant bank at your town hall. Please understand that resistance or violence of any kind shall not be tolerated.”

And with that the speech had ended.

Bond-servant, good god.  
He wondered if they really meant to take human slaves. If they were not aware that people would not just allow them to enslave a small portion of the population.

God help them all.

John sat still, feeling dizzy. He knew that he fit the description perfectly.  
Then again, most humans in modern London did, as it was a city of young, fast-living people that had no time for a family, focusing on their career, enjoying life.  
And John Hamish Watson was caught in the middle of a nightmare his mind refused to comprehend.


	2. The Resistance

During the next days, the new rules were prominently displayed on the front pages of the newspapers and repeated on radio and the evening news on television.

 

Of course there were riots. 

People never liked change, and when someone came along, murdered the leader of your country and told you that you just lost your rights to assemble or make any more choices on your own and could potentially be chosen to be a full-time snack-bar, things were never going to go well. 

Never. 

 

About 3 days later, when all humans were asked to register for blood donation as well as bond-servants, something like communal anger broke loose and large number of mainly young, angry men decided that enough was enough.   
Tens of Thousands of Londoners went on the street, screaming abuse, carrying sticks and knives and guns, throwing Molotov cocktails into windows, rocking cars, looting department stores while making their way to Buckingham Palace. 

 

They were brutally beaten down within less than 2 hours. 

Many thousand humans died that day in a horrific blood bath, caused by vampires as well as by the rioters themselves, when they started to panic in the smoke, killing each other, trampling to death the ones that had fallen.  
Some were murdered for simply being tall and pale, others for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

And then the vampires attacked, like the fury of God, fast as lightening, ripping open throats in the midst of battle, then going over to simply breaking necks, hurling humans against walls or crushing their windpipe in one swift motion, for the affected to die slowly on the floor, gasping for air that they could not pull through their crushed larynxes.

The ones that survived the blood bath later mentioned that it was almost like a horrifically beautiful dance, the way the vampires moved in swift motions, seemingly everywhere at once, moving with the speed of a deadly predator, never stopping to take stock of the injured or the dead. 

Untouchable. 

John had not joined the riots, aware that he would be needed desperately in the hospital once the injured would arrive. It had been his day off, but when he heard the angry mob marching in the street, he had pulled out his coat and made his way to St. Barths.

There were so many dead, in the end the body count was more than 6,000.

Many humans were arrested and the penalties were harsh and swift, most being forced to hard, manual labour for up to 5 years.

The death toll for the vampires was a mere 96.

Within just hours after the riots had calmed down, there was an emergency broadcast.  
The new leader of England spoke.

And in his calm voice, that now almost sounded sad, he proclaimed that the reaction of the humans to the new laws was saddening. He did understand that the changes could be seen as an invasion of rights, but that the new government in no way tried to cut away any freedom from humans.  
But, as it had always been, to live free and happily, there were sacrifices to be made.   
He stopped for a moment, taking a long breath. When he continued, his voice was dangerously low. “It is extremely upsetting that a group of London citizens decided to react hateful to their new leaders, to balk against the natural order and defy what is naturally superior to them.  
Unfortunately, this cannot be left unpunished.  
96 vampires have died today, defending the new life of a peaceful coexistence between Vampires and Humans, a pact that would ultimately bring peace and eventually freedom for everyone.   
Our generous offer has been cruelly turned down, and therefore it had been decided, that there shall be a lesson so this shall never happen again.  
To make clear that these kind of upsetting events shall NOT BE TOLERATED.  
Therefore, for each vampire that had died today, a human will be publicly executed tomorrow afternoon.   
In the future, treason would be penalized with the death sentence.”

That was it.  
John was still at work, him and several of his co-workers staring at the TV-screen in their break room. A woman behind him started to cry in a low, sad voice.   
“Danny” she whispered…….

 

The executions were broadcasted on TV.   
Live.   
96 human beings, some female, mostly males, on their knees, looking defiantly in the camera, a few of them crying, some still, others shouting, one or two’s lips moving silently, as if in prayer.   
Their death was fast and clean.   
Shots to the head.   
How humane. 

And this was how the Era of the Vampires began. 

 

In the end it was not a big decision for John to join the resistance. 

He had watched the executions on the telly, forced himself to look at each one of the 96 that had been chosen to die, and burned the images into his brain.  
Dr. John Hamish Watson had always believed in peace, but he also was a man with the knowledge that it was the duty of every man and woman that was able-bodied to protect the innocent and fight against the cruel and oppressing. 

He had quietly stood in line with many others, allowing his finger print to be taken and handed over a small vial of blood to be placed into the bound-servant registry.   
Being a doctor, he had taken the chance to take blood from a close friend, who was HIV positive as well as much older than him, and he knew the nurse who drew the samples in the backroom, slipping her the vial, squeezing her hand in appreciation when she gave him a quiet nod.   
They took his photo and placed his information into the registry, but he was never called for.

Thank god no one else he knew was called for either. 

Regular donation services, yes. 

Bound-servant, no. 

 

John had first learned about the resistance through a friend at work, who had whispered to him about a meeting, and he had followed him through dirty alleyways that smelled of beer and vomit, through the backdoor of a pub, concealed as a “backdoor watering hole”, as most pubs had to now register and track each patrons alcohol consumption in a computer system.   
He knew that the cover was rather clever.   
This way, if the vampires caught them in the dingy backroom, they would be only tried with unlawful alcohol consumption which held up to 2 years in prison, and not treason, for which the penalty was death. 

The first time they had met, it was clear that the small assembly of maybe 25 people needed a place to talk, to vent, to cry. To discuss.   
To allow their anger to be heard without the fear of any kind of retaliation.

4 members that John met over the next weeks knew someone close to them that had disappeared since the Rising of the Vampires. One good-looking man had been married for 3 weeks before his new wife had not returned from work. He had received a letter 2 days later, explaining that her services were needed for the country, and that his understanding and sacrifice in this case was much appreciated.  
There was a check for 10,000 pounds along with the letter.   
He had not heard from her since. 

He had shown them the check, his hands shaking in impotent anger.   
John had not been able to look him in the eye for the rest of the evening.

Nothing much happened in the first couple of monthly meetings, as the main necessity at that point had been to collect information about the vampires. .   
Their habits, their ways, their needs, myth versus reality, had to be researched.  
Some things were clear from the start: Vampires could walk in the sunlight and had no issue with garlic or holy water whatsoever.   
They did not seem too fond of crosses, but that may have tied in with their general resistance against any form of religion.   
They could take nourishment from donated blood as long as it was no older than 24 hours, but most of them preferred to feed straight from the source.   
There were rumours, that there were some “special” humans the vampires called donors, and that their blood gave more power and vitality when harvested straight from the source (in plain English: when someone was bitten). John and some of the other members of the medical and research areas tried to find out more about these special donors, but there was hardly any information to be had.   
They did not even know if there was a difference in the blood of these special donors, or how the vampires could tell them apart from the rest of the humans.

All they knew was, that if they heard of such a special human, that person was normally gone within 24 hours, not to be seen again. 

After months of research it was clear, that the vampires were masters in keeping their secrets hidden. 

John spent many hours in libraries, carefully researching through the different myths that had come up over centuries all in different countries. Many books and internet sources had been removed on the subject, so he had to sit long hours, painstakingly going through books about folklore and myths from all over the world.   
No one trusted the internet any more.   
John did not want himself locked up for treason for googling: ’10 ways how to kill a vampire.’   
No sir. 

He collected all the stories and suggestions, from the ideas that Vampires could not stand mirrors, sunlight, garlic, holy water, crosses, could not drink blood from dead people, had to be killed by a wooden stake through the heart. All of these were common knowledge through popular film and literature, but they also seemed to be mostly incorrect.

Depending on which folklore John studied, vampires could read minds, produce poltergeist-like activity, transformed into witches during the day, had the ability to change their forms into wolves, rats or bats, causes all sort of plaques and sported no bones…John sometimes sat in the library for hours, massaging his temples, taking down myth after myth, no matter how small, insignificant or ludicrous the idea seemed and catalogued them.

Vircolac. Strigoiu. Ereticy. Phii Song Nang. Mjertovjec. Sampiro. Blautsauger. Dakhanavar. yara-ma-yha-who, the list of names for these creatures seemed endless.   
They were as versatile as the countries that they had been spotted in over the centuries. 

He of course also looked up ways to defeat vampires.

Again, the myths varied extremely on how vampires were created and how they could be killed, depending on the part of the world they stemmed from.   
In the Czech Republic one would need to steal the shroud of the undead and burn it to kill them. Again, each country had their own myth.   
There were mentions of Stakes. Cutting off the head. Taking a horse to find the deceased graves and burn the body. Boil the vampire’s head in vinegar. Drown it in salt water. Cut out the heart and split it. Drive a Nail in the forehead (or in eyes and heart if female). Dump the body of in the mountains and allow for wolves to consume it. Shove garlic in the mouth. Force a wooden stick through the navel. Get vultures and eagles to tear the body apart.   
So many ideas, and most of them were so utterly useless, John felt like crying. 

He would carefully catalogue and carry his findings back to the meetings, but in the end it was decided that it was probably the most helpful to talk to eye-witnesses of the slaughter, and find someone who could tell them how the 96 vampires that were killed during the Revolution had died.   
But it proved to be almost impossible to find anyone who had seen these events happening.   
They found out that one vampire was struck down by a falling wall of a burning building.   
That was it. 

No one else would speak to them.

 

One thing they knew for certain. 

Vampires were vain, randomly cruel and showed no mercy even against the smallest misbehaviour of humans against their wishes. They could move extremely fast according to eye witnesses, but they did not use it in everyday situations in the streets of London.  
When they had not fed, they seemed more grumpy and eager to hurt anyone in their way than usual, but they did abide to the law that no humans could be killed without just cause.   
They liked to cause pain. 

Their strength was immense. 

It was believed that their hearing and eye sight was far above average, even though no one could say for sure. People that lived with vampires or frequented clubs ( _fangbangers_ ) did note that they did not seem to need to feed every day, but that normally the blood of certain human beings would give them more energy than others.  
One of the members of the Resistance that was in the same group as John worked at one of the vampire sex clubs, and the told them about one human girl he met there.   
She was drawn like a moth to the vampires, circling their clubs, their blood bars, finding sexual pleasure from their bite, asking to be turned, to be fucked, to be made into a bound-servant.   
In the beginning one vampire had indulged her with a sneer, but when he had bitten the woman, he tossed her to the floor within seconds. He told her, in front of the whole club, that not only did she have a face like a horse, but that her blood tasted like luke-warm piss.  
No one else had touched her.   
She had to leave the club, alone.  
So feeding was as much about power as it was about nourishment.  
And it seemed that sex also played a big part in some of the vampires feeding processes, but this was highly dependent on the individual. 

The main consensus was that vampires were cold and showed no feelings, and John as well as every other person in the world quickly learned to keep their head down when a vampire stepped into the room, allow them in the front of the line, giving them what they asked for, and standing back when they were told to. 

And John and his friends at the resistance kept their head down and continued to learn about their new oppressors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a lot of info on vampire history, but this was one of the main sources for me: http://h2g2.com/dna/h2g2/alabaster/A268562   
> Next chapter John will meet the Holmes brothers....


	3. Revolution

8 years .

It took 8 years for them to finally rise and fight.

8 years of planning, connecting to other branches of the resistance worldwide, forming a network over the internet, mail, travel.

8 years of smuggling weapons into the houses of the members, of training for the final battle, of recruiting new members very carefully. 

8 years of John flinching when someone pressed his door bell, or when a vampire walked up to him at the blood bank. 

He knew what would happen if they would find out.  
But he held his head down, continued his work at St. Barths, stealing one or two hours of research on different types of blood a day, always with the same, devastating results.  
Nothing.  
No difference between donor types, why some would be more ’tasteful’ than others.  
Devastating. 

 

Then, finally, the big day had come. 

There were more than 7 million people and approx. 8000 registered vampires living in London, and about 250.000 people that had signed on to be part of the resistance. 

The day for the uprising was picked at random, the 19th of July. 

Each group knew about it, within London as well as worldwide.  
It was decided for everyone to attack at the same time, at the same day and same moment all over the world.  
For England, that time turned out to be late afternoon. Asia would fight at night. The States in the morning.  
Everyone was ready.  
Or at least as ready as they ever hoped to be.

 

They had waited for 8 bloody years. 

And then it turned out…. The vampires knew.  
About everything. 

Since the start they had followed the resistance and spied on them, as John would later find out.  
And they had simply waited for the humans to make the first step.

Their vengeance was horrifying.

 

For the last couple of weeks before THE DAY, John had forced himself to be calm, to ignore the nervousness in his stomach whenever he walked outside, to keep his head down and change nothing in his demeanour that could be seen as suspicious. 

For the day of the Revolution it would be his job to first destroy the stock of the mandatory blood bank at St. Barths as it would be done in every blood bank in the city, country, world.  
Once that would be done he was to grab his gun, wooden stake and silver-lined knife (that every one of the resistance had received) and join the fight at Buckingham Palace. 

It had been decided that these three weapons would possibly yield the most results during their fights, and could be most easily shared with others.  
They had trained for hours and days to stab the wooden stakes into dead pigs hanging in slaughter houses.  
Still, John looked at it with a stubborn distaste when he had received it. 

The 19th of July was a grey, rainy day.  
No surprise there, yet for some sentimental reason John was sad he could not see the sun just one last time…. just in case he would not have the chance again.

His shift that day was pure torture, he went through the motions as he did every other day, his mind buzzing with a calm nervousness that heightened all his senses and made the world around him almost surreal. 

At 5 pm he told the nurse that he would take a break and made his way to the blood bank.  
He entered without problems, and with quick, sure movements turned down temperature of the fridges to shock the blood, bursting its red blood cells with the cold, turning it undrinkable for any vampire. Another revolutionist had taken care of the alarm to any temperature fluctuation of the fridges weeks ago, and the high-pitched noise that he would usually expect, did not go off.  
The fresher samples were kept at room temperature, and John quickly and calmly walked through the rows, plunging tainted syringes into fresh donor bags, allowing them to slowly seep onto the floor.

John waited for a couple of minutes, to make sure that on the one hand the temperature was dropping while he watched the fresh blood congeal in dark puddles under the tables.  
He gave a quick look around and shrugged on his coat, leaving without a glance back. 

 

Walking down the road, he could see the fires from miles away. 

He jogged through the city seemingly caught in a war – people screaming and running, windows being smashed, a child crying, wandering alone on the other side of the street- but John did not lose his focus -- Buckingham Palace.  
Where everything had started.  
And tonight it would end there.  
One way or another.

He knew that he could be there in around half an hour if he hurried, but he had not anticipated the crowds of people, the chaos around him.

When he reached Fleet Street, London was burning around him.  
And that was when he started to run. 

 

John stood for a minute, his eyes flicking over the devastation that racked the streets in front of him.  
He had reached it.  
The Palace.  
And it was a massacre  
Thousands of people were already dead on the floor, lying in puddles of their own blood (lakes, Good God, there were _streams of red_ , the air heavy with the coppery smell….), and he could see the flames licking along the façade of the left side of the large building. 

Still, he could hear the battle sounds and John forced himself to collect his thoughts and he continued on, his eyes focused on the ground, making his way between the fallen. 

Not all of them were dead.

There were moans and screams, injured begging for him to stop, screaming for their mothers, their lovers, names he could not or did not want to understand.  
John forced himself not to listen, to place his heart into an iron cast, knowing if he stopped he would never fight. He would try to heal. But then their sacrifice would have been useless.  
He continued on, to the heart of the battle, joining his fellow humans on the battle-ground for freedom.

John finally made it to the palace, where he saw a women he knew briefly from the other parts of town, from another pocket of the resistance he hardly ever had met.  
Their glances met briefly before they rushed through the smoke into the palace. 

 

When he arrived, John could see that several hundred humans had been able to break down the doors and make it inside, determined to force their way through the chambers, to kill the leader of the vampires and regain the power that had been taken from them.  
One man had stood at the burning entrance and sent John with a small group along to their left to find and kill any vampires they came across.  
They had fought their way through the smoke, and after an eternity or an blink of an eye, John did not know which, he found himself with only 3 others in a large room, clad in gold and satin, reeking of smoke.  
They had a quick look around, and John had just made the decision that it would be best to find the rest of their group – safety in numbers - when the door closed with a sharp bang. 

John and his 3 companions jumped slightly, the girl to his left (how old was she? 15? 16? Good God!) letting out a small scream.  
He slowly turned around, crowding her behind his body unconsciously, shifting himself closer to the other two humans next to him.  
The woman who was in front, her name was something with a J….–Jackie …??? straightened herself and started to fire at the man and woman that had entered the room. 

John winced.

Jackie must have forgotten how little their bullets had shown to have any effect on the vampires, unless fired at very short range, right between the eyes.  
It was a waste of ammunition really, especially as the two were still at the other end of the room.  
John knew he had only 2 bullets left himself, and he would try to hold on to them until the very last moment. He had lost his stake, buried deep in the chest of some blood sucker down the line.  
So his knife and gun was all he had left. 

The man opposite of them, tall and pale, dragged the air through his lungs in a very audible sniff.  
He held it for a moment, and then released it, the corners of his mouth creeping up.  
John could see his fangs glitter deadly in the low, flickering light of the room.  
Vampire then.  
Great. 

The voice was dark and low when he spoke, almost like a growl.  
“Ahhh… see here. We have a donor.”

John’s mind went blank for a moment, trying to process the information.  
Donor? A blood donor? Here? His eyes flicked to the side, where he could see Jackie stiffen in her stand. One of them….  
The vampire approached them slowly, his hands behind his back, clad in a wide, sweeping wool coat, unruly, slightly too long curls tumbling into his eyes.  
“Which one of you is it?” he murmured. 

John’s eyes narrowed as he backed off further, pressing the girl behind him against the wall, raising his gun towards the approaching vampire.

_Shit._

Words ran through his head, words of pleading, words of promise, but he knew in the bottom of his heart he could not talk himself or his companions out of this situation.  
He expected no mercy.  
John closed his eyes and swallowed. 

So he lowered his stance, gripping the knife and the gun in his hands tighter.  
They felt like nothing against what he now knew was a force of nature.  
A hurricane, a volcano, disguised as a human.  
But he would be damned if he went down without a fight.  
Take the bastard with him if he could. 

The vampire stopped, noting the defending stand that John had taken.  
He let out a low, dark laugh.  
“Ah, what do we have here? A hero?”  
He studied John for a moment, his mouth dropped.  
“Boring.”  
His handwave was dismissive as his eyes continued to roam the other rebels, as if he could see through their flesh. 

Who knew, maybe he could

He continued to speak, his voice dark and rolling, almost enticing:  
“Now, _Humans_ ” -the word was spit out as if foul – “one of you here is valuable to us. You will lower your weapons and step forward, allow us to find out which one it is – without resistance - and the rest of you may leave this place alive.”

For a moment there was nothing but breathing in the room.  
John tensed, thinking quickly.  
“You are going to let us walk away if we leave one of us here?”  
He knew he had to buy time for them.  
They had arrived with a large group of rebels; maybe some of them would find them…..

The vampire slowly turned towards him, fangs once more glittering in the low light.  
“Walk away?” He gave a soft growl. “No. You have attacked the authority, and though it is of course understandable and very predictable, none of you can go free. All of you are our prisoners. But you shall not die. Now, doctor, what say you?”

John tensed. _How…?_  
His body must have shown his surprise, as there was a sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter from the tall man’s throat.  
“Ah, you are wondering how I know that you are a doctor, please, it is fairly obvious, is it not? “

The female vampire, who had been silent so far, gave a moan of impatience, but the male ignored her.

“You are wearing white sneakers with special soles, ones that leave no marks on laminated floors as it is required by some more old-fashioned hospitals. They smell of medication as well as several bodily fluids that have accumulated over the years. You don’t normally wear them outside, so you have a job that requires special footwear, comfortable and enduring, like a waiter, but one that is in a place where vomit and urine can splash your feet .  
Your pants are splattered with blood, approximately 10 - 20 hours old, different donors, which means that you have access to blood, so you either were close to bleeding people in the last day, more likely that you have recently been to and probably destroyed a blood bank.  
Blood Bank means hospital – you could be a janitor or nurse, but the expensive Jacket and mohair sweater does not indicate working class.  
Your hands are chapped and still show a minor rash, you seem to have a slight latex allergy which would be induced by gloves used by medical staff and researchers, and I believe you forgot today to look for a substitute and slipped latex on by mistake, however briefly, probably something on your mind, I wonder what, until the itch of the rash made you remember. You could work in the lab, but the way you pushed that girl behind you and your quiet authority would mean that you don’t allow yourself “just” to be a worker. You are a hero, always wanted to be.”

John had not noticed how his gun had lowered, just by a couple of centimetres as the vampire had talked in an ejaculate of words that seemed neverending.  
They were, of course, devastatingly true. 

He swallowed and remembered that he could not back up any more. 

His hand steadied on his weapons. 

Time, he needed time.  
His mind was racing, and Doctor John Hamish Watson started to sweat. 

Then the girl behind him spoke up.  
“Please….I want to live.”  
Everyone in the room froze for a moment, and John felt his heart flutter and tighten in his chest, and he could not keep himself from turning, extending an arm to hold her back:  
“NO!” His hiss seemed loud in his own ears.  
The female vampire laughed.

The girl stared at him with bright, teary eyes, then she gently pushed his protective hand off and circled from behind him, her weapons clattering onto the floor.  
John could see her raising her hands in the universal gesture of surrender. 

The girl stopped for a brief second, then turned her head ever so slightly back at her fellow revolutionists.  
“I am so sorry…”  
And she walked towards the two vampires, towering over her.

The male waited until she stood right next to him, a triumphant grin spreading on his face.  
It was obvious he relished his power over someone that was so terrified.  
He leaned over towards her neck, his long fingers curling around it, taking a long experimental sniff.  
His mouth drew tight and thin in disgust and pale eyes flicked back to the remaining three members of the resistance.  
“Not the donor.”  
And with a flick of the hand to the side he broke her neck. 

John heard the woman next to him scream.  
He felt himself raise his gun, firing.

And the vampires moved in.  
It only took a few seconds for them to round the remaining humans up, allow the pale man to sniff them before breaking the necks of the ones he identified with a shake of the head.  
It was over in the time of a heartbeat.

Within a few seconds John was the only one of the humans left alive.

He was lying on the floor, dazed by the quick and efficient blood frenzy he just witnessed, pinned under the tall, lanky man.  
“You….”the dark voice showed a hint of surprise.  
But just for a second.  
Then the flash of the teeth reappeared and John could not keep himself from screaming.

For the vampire dove forwards, digging his teeth into his flesh of his neck, ripping large holes into it.  
The vampire let go, and whispered into John’s ear.

“See, donor, we have the power to make you enjoy this. To crave this. Even to find it sexually stimulating. But you have been a right bother, and for now I have decided that you will hurt.”

And John felt the vampire lean in towards the sluggishly bleeding puncture wounds in his neck and could feel a _PULL_ that went straight to his bones, ripping a sob from his lips. 

Pain.  
Oh MY GOD. So much PAIN!!!!

He wanted to struggle, to cringe, but his mind froze as paralyzing horror took over his limps, as his essence was pulled forcefully out of his body. He focused on gulping painful breaths down his throat, his hands scrambling at the unmoving, rock-hard chest that pressed into him, his head kept in place by an iron hand, turning him to the side.

It was over very quickly.

John had been sure he would die here today.  
But no.  
Sometimes, much later, he wished he had. 

Finally, the vampire leaned back, pushing himself up while still straddling John Watson, his head facing towards the ceiling, a motion of bliss washing over his features. 

“Oh my….” The sound he made was soft, almost under his breath, and John took the moment to let his fingers creep up to his neck where he felt his blood spill between his fingers in slow, rhythmical spurts. - _God, it still hurt, it BURNED, how could a bite hurt so much?_

The movement pulled the attention of the vampire back to him, and with a low raise of his eyebrows he swapped John’s hand away.  
He stuck his fingers into his mouth and quickly pushed them against the open wound, making John cringe. He struggled lightly and was awarded with a snort from the man looming over him.  
“Relax, human, I am disinfecting and closing the wound, can’t let a donor bleed out, now can we?”  
A sarcastic grin flashed over the blood smeared features, and John felt another push against his jugular vein, pressing down for a moment.  
Then the hand was gone.

The vampire rose silently.  
John’s hand again wandered to his neck. The wounds had indeed stopped bleeding.  
With his next breath he felt himself grabbed by the front of his shirt and pulled to his feet, grunting as his limps rebelled, a low, uncomfortable dizziness settling into his body.

 _Shock. And blood loss. Adrenalin. Reaction to the pain._  
His mind was still very analytical, and at this point he was grateful for that.  
It kept him grounded. 

The vampire pushed him towards the female that had entered the room with him, his voice low and steady as he spoke.  
“Anthea. Take him to Mycroft. DON’T FEED FROM HIM. He belongs to me.”

He gave John another long look, and then he turned and left. 

John felt himself dragged out of the room.

God, he was so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for commenting, it means a lot to me.   
> I may not answer, life is busy at the moment, I am happy I can escape sometimes by writing.


	4. Confinement

Mycroft turned out to be a tall, sophisticated gentleman who had also happened to be the new leader of the Greater Britain area.   
John had seen him on TV.   
But he had never heard or read his first name. 

Anthea had taken him up the stairs, along long corridors in Buckingham Palace, through smoke and rubble, not caring if John could keep up or if she had to drag him (which she did most of the way he was sorry to say…). He stumbled along, and when she finally pushed the doors open to a grand room, with the walls decorated heavily in golden prints, all John could do was fall to the floor.   
Anthea let go of him and turned towards the grand wooden table, big enough to hold at least 30 people dominating the middle, at the moment occupied by a single man. 

The ‘leader’ – Mycroft.

He was sitting quietly, apparently oblivious to the fires and smoke around him, his eyes fixed on a piece of paper he had picked up from a pile in front of him. His eyes flicked up when he saw Anthea enter, his mouth curling into a sneer.

“Anthea. How nice of you to drop in. Where is Sherlock?”

The woman grinned, pointing towards John who had collapsed on the floor, sitting as in a daze.  
“He found a donor. He is out again, looking for more, but he asked me to bring this one to you.” She grinned widely, her eyes flickering over John. “Oh, and he said he was _HIS_. It has been quite a while for Sherlock, has it not?”

The leader raised an eyebrow. He stood in front of John within the blink of an eye, making Dr. Watson gasp and cringe back. Vampires hardly ever showed how fast they could move in every-day live, but to actually _see_ what he had only heard about…it was scary as SHIT.  
Mycroft leaned in to him, his black eyes scanning his body. 

“Hmmmm. Old. Not very good looking either. I wonder what….”   
With a swift movement he jerked John to his feet and plunged him against the wall. He studied the horror on John’s face for a second, then he stroke.   
Fast.   
Hard.  
His teeth boring into John’s side of the neck, the one that was still untouched, without bite marks.  
John screamed, but within seconds the pain had eased into something else, a low, pulsing pleasurable experience that shot through his body, heady and erotic like nothing he had ever experienced before.   
He gasped, knees giving way under him as he embraced the sexuality of the bite, but the vampire steadied him with a hand on his back, holding him tight for several seconds before he drew back, his tongue curling around the puncture wounds.

“Yes, he is a donor. Seems to have more vitality than usual. Interesting aroma as well. Complex. Heavy and salty with a touch of honey and an unusual but not unpleasant bitterness…..”  
John sank to the floor, back against the wall when the vampire stepped back.  
Good God, his dick was hard in his pants, and a wide grin had settled on his face.  
He felt like he was high.   
On some very expensive designer drug!

The two vampires gave him another glance.   
“Reactive, that one.” Anthea laughed under her breath. 

The vampire – Mycroft – turned around, heading back to his papers.   
He gave a dismissive hand-wave, not wasting another glance at John.   
“Take him to the compound, check him in personally, and donate what he can to the wounded. Mark him for Sherlock, but not permanently, this still needs to be discussed.”   
Mycroft nodded, then his eyes once more went down to his papers, dismissing them without another word. 

 

Anthea took John into the courtyard of Buckingham, where a large, military-style vehicle was waiting for them. He could see a tall, youngish man standing next to the car, eyes roaming lazily. Inside the back seat was an elderly man, probably in his 60s, sunken into himself.   
Anthea opened the door and pushed John in the back, not binding or otherwise securing him in any way. For a moment he was surprised, and then he realized bitterly that he had suffered blood loss and also – he was no match for a vampire.   
He was not going anywhere. 

The man next to him mumbled to himself, as the doors were closed with a loud bang. There was a short discussion between Anthea and the young man, and then they both climbed into the front seats and they were off. 

They drove through London like maniacs, not stopping nor swaying for anyone.

John could feel the car hit something twice, a loud shriek from the outside, but it carried on without even slowing down. 

They stopped once, just outside of Brighton, and a little girl of the age of maybe 5 was pushed in to the back, her thumb lodged securely between her lips, large eyes staring at the two men.   
John felt heat rise in his stomach as he noted the bite marks on her small, white neck, and without a thought he pulled her into his arms, holding her close, as if he could protect her.  
She never said a word, large blue eyes like saucers staring into the world rushing by outside as they continued to drive on.

Their destination turned out to be an old car factory about a 3 hours’ drive outside of London.  
It looked deserted from the outside, but once they had entered through one of the open doors, John noticed how heavily secured it really was.   
John had held on to the little girl, scooping her up in his arms, whispering soothing sounds into her ears as he was motioned to follow Anthea. The old man resisted by ignoring the male vampire once they had stopped, and Anthea just snorted and gave John an impatient wave to follow him. 

“They will catch up.” She said with a cold voice that sent shivers down his spine. 

John did not look back and tried to cover the little girl’s ears when he heard screams behind him.   
Hollow, sad screams from the bottom of the old man’s soul. 

He bit his lip and held the child tighter.   
She did not react. 

 

They went down several flights of stairs after crossing a dark, empty warehouse, focusing on a fire-exit halfway behind a large pile of rubble.   
Anthea had switched on a flashlight for John, even though it was clear she did not need to rely on it.   
When they reached the bottom, she knocked on the steel door three times, raising her eyes to the camera that was mounted in the left-hand corner, its red eye small and unblinking.

“Donors.” Her voice sounded almost bored.

With a sharp click the door opened, and they entered a small room, this one lit in a low yellow light. Anthea pulled the door closed behind them, then turned to John.  
“Strip.”  
John swallowed as a cold shiver ran down his spine. He pressed the little girl closer to his chest, his eyebrows knotting in anger. “What?”  
Anthea snorted. “I said strip, _doctor._. I don’t have time for games; I have spent enough time acting as your babysitter already. Either you strip now, or I will do it for you. And believe me; you don’t want that to happen.”

John shivered slightly, then he lowered the girl slowly. Her feet did not carry her weight when she touched the ground, and he turned his head towards her, whispering into her ear: “Listen, honey, I need you to stand for a moment, ok?” He lowered her further, but she was like a rag doll, and finally he gently placed her on the cold floor, where she curled into a small ball. 

Shock.  
Not good. 

He quickly took of his thick jacket and moved her on it, to keep the cold from seeping into her bones.

Anthea gave an impatient huff, but did not say anything as John kept his eyes on the floor and quickly went to pulling his pullover over his head, his hair crackling with static. He also removed his white shirt beneath, and then knelt to open the laces of his sneakers. He removed them, placing them side by side in one corner, then opened his belt and climbed out of his brown, blood-stained cord trousers. He left his pants and socks on.

It was cold. 

He gave Anthea an expectant look, and she gave a loud sigh and shrugged.   
“The girl too.”

John fisted his hands at his side, staring at the woman.   
“She is cold, she is in shock. Leave her clothes on, for Christ Sake.”

Within the flash of an eye, John felt himself pushed against the cold, concrete wall, his feet not touching the floor, a cold hand lifting him by the throat. His hands flew up, grappling at the iron grip, but to no avail.  
“Doctor, as I mentioned, I am out of patience. Strip her, now.”  
She squeezed for a moment, then let go.  
John crumbled, gasping for breath.   
He could feel bruises forming under his skin where her fingers had dug in. He swallowed and walked to the girl, not looking at the vampire.  
Hate burned in his stomach.   
And fear.   
Maybe even more fear than hate. 

The girl still had no muscle tension to speak of, like a doll whose strings had been cut, and John had no experience with children, but finally he managed to peel her out of her coat and dress, leaving her pants and socks on as he did on himself. Then he curled her against his chest once more.   
Her breath was dangerously slow.   
She hardly blinked. 

He nodded at Anthea, and she rapped at the door in front of them.   
“Open, they are prepared.”

 

The room they were led into was large and relatively dark.   
There were several desks in the front and something that looked like large cages towards the back. 

“A very young female, Brighton, and a male Donor, mid age, part of the resistance, London. The male is claimed for but shall donate what is needed. He needs to be marked under S. Holmes, but not yet permanently.” Anthea had turned to an elder female vampire that stepped up to her, her voice low and bored. 

“Sure. Bring them over to the reception desk; have him placed in number 7. She can be brought in any of the others. Clothes and blankets are over there. Ask one of the guards to take care of them.” 

Her eyes wandered over John for a moment. “Sherlock, hey? Interesting.”

John was taken aback by this comment for just a moment, then he felt Anthea’s hand wrap around his arm and pointed into the direction she wanted him to go. 

They stopped in front of a large shelf that held several rows of white clothing.   
He was glad there would be some kind of protection, for the room was freezing, and John had started to shiver uncontrollably.   
A dark-skinned male vampire looked them over with a quick glance and pulled out a small ensemble for the girl, placing it on a table to the right. John looked at Anthea, then placed the child on top of the table and slowly started to dress her, lifting limb by limb of the unresponsive child, pulling the slightly too large shirt and pullover over her head.  
He decided to speak, turning to the man in front of the shelving, who was now holding a similar, if larger set for John.  
“She is in shock, she needs fluids and a blanket.”

Anthea had turned to him, quick as a snake, slapping John hard enough for him to go down to the floor.

“Doctor, as of now on you are a bound-servant, you shall only speak when you are spoken to.”

John collected himself, sitting on the floor, biting down his anger that was bubbling up his throat.   
“Get up, Dr. Watson.” Antheas voice was cold. She stared down at him, waiting for him to stand, as he swayed slightly on his feet. 

She handed him his own bundle of clothes that he quickly pulled on without a question or hesitation.  
His cheek still stung from the blow.  
The shirt and trousers were of soft jersey material, but the pullover turned out to be heavy, scratchy wool, but it was large and warm and would protect him from the freezing air. 

For a moment he wondered if vampires could be cold. 

 

“Follow me.” John did not look at Anthea when he heard her silent command, but instead slowly turned towards the girl to pick her up once more.

“No.” The voice of the vampire was cold as ice. “She is going somewhere else. Someone will take care of her from here on.”

John turned towards her, swallowing heavily. “But I…I am a doctor, I can take care of her, please, she is not well…”  
Antheas eyes narrowed once more.   
“Doctor Watson….” He knew her patience was over and done with. He gave the girl a tight little hug, petting her limp, blond hair, whispering into her ears. “You will be fine. Everything will be fine. Don’t worry sweetheart.”

He pressed a short kiss on her forehead.   
The child did not react.  
He did not expect her to.

With a sigh he turned and followed the vampire.

John was sure that he would be brought to the cages he had seen glittering in the background, but once they got close to them he saw that they were all empty.   
He let out a small sigh of relief.   
They passed dark, empty metal boxes and stopped at another white door.   
Anthea knocked harshly. 

The door swayed open after a long while, an elder male blinking at them, his eyes narrowed as he scanned John slowly.   
“Number 7? Holmes?”

Anthea nodded, pushing John forward. “Yes. Holmes and spoken for but he is available for donations as well.”

“Yes yes.” The older vampire grumbled, his fangs flashing in the low light. “It is all already in the computer. Anything else we should know? Any time-frame we will have to keep him here?”

“I don’t know. You can always contact our leader if necessary. I need to get back, anything else?”  
The old man flashed a loop-sided grin. “Collar, yes? No branding or tattoo?”

John felt a cold wave wash down his spine. He felt bile rise within his throat. Good God, would he be marked like an animal? He had known already what he had lost, but this question had put his new life in a perspective that he had not considered before.

Anthea smiled cruelly as she noted John sway.  
“Collar for now. Mark him for the Holmes brothers. Either Mr. Holmes or Sherlock will fetch him as soon as the… crisis is over.”

The vampire guard nodded. 

“Sure. No problem.”

He stepped back and bowed down, pulling a unembellished metal collar from one of the drawers of his heavy wooden desk. He stepped up to John, who backed off without a second thought. It was like he had his freedom, but once the metal would touch his skin, that would be over.   
A hand shot forwards, and John felt it pushing against his spine, almost gently.   
The cold metal touched his skin, burning, before it snapped close with a finality that took John’s breath away.

The hand in his back left. 

John swayed on his feet, as if this last act of taking his freedom had taken more energy from him as all the other things that he had gone through before.   
Anthea gave the elder vampire a nod and flashed a toothy grin at John, her fangs clearly visible, making her look like the evil predator he knew she was.

“I am sure I will see you again, Dr. Watson. Be a good boy and behave.”  
She turned to leave, the stopped and faced him once more.  
“Oh, and just some advice for the future? Sherlock has no patience. He has not been human for a very long time, maybe he never was. Keep that in mind when he comes to claim you. It will make your life easier and probably prolong it as well.”

With that she left John Watson alone, standing in front of the long hallway with an old, white vampire that scanned him with obvious interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah guys, sorry for the slow updates, live, you know....  
> But will try to update once a week. :-S
> 
> I think the fun should start with the next chapter *Evil cackle*


	5. Blood donation

John was walked down the dark hallway, away from the door they had entered through.  
Both sides of the walkway were lined with heavy-looking, metal doors that were marked with black sprayed-on numbers. The lights flickered in a way that was immensely irritating, and it added to the anxiety that pooled in John’s stomach.  
The god-damn collar was lying heavily on his skin, burning where the cold metal touched his throat and neck.

They stopped in front of room 7.  
The vampire opened the door without unlocking it, and gestured John inside.  
His loop-sided grin was still plastered on his face.

John hesitated for a second, but then took a deep breath and stepped through the door.  
There was nowhere to run.  
Even if he would be able to escape this hallway, out the door, get through the hall with the empty cages, past the two vampires there, up the stairs littered with cameras and out of the compound, he knew that there was nothing for miles around the abandoned building.  
Also, he really had no idea where he was.  
Or where he could go.

The room was mostly empty, cold and contained very little.  
The walls were relatively low, white-washed, a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.  
Two beds lined the walls, one surprisingly occupied by a tall, blond man covered in scars.  
There was a portable toilet in the corner, a small metal table that was screwed to the floor, on it a large plastic water bottle and two plastic cups. 

That was it.  
John stood for a moment, eyes wandering.  
Then the door closed behind him with a loud clang.  
The sound made him flinch, and with a quick motion he turned and stared at the door.  
No handle.  
No wonder that the doors were not locked from the outside. 

_No fucking handle._

His fingers trailed over the cold metal, and he gave a tentative push. 

Nope.  
It did not budge. 

John stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trying desperately to fight the panic that was bubbling up, forcing its way to the surface. Finally, he turned slowly and stared at the other man who was lounging on the bed further away from the door.  
The dark brown eyes seemed to be mocking him, and a knowing smirk was plastered over the tanned face.  
John pulled back his shoulders and gave a quick nod, then walked to the other bed, dropping his aching frame onto the surprisingly soft mattress. He pulled the woollen blanket over himself, turned towards the wall.  
The events of the day washed over Dr. John Watson, and his mind was blank; between the heat of the cruel collar that had taken his freedom and the inability of even knowing what to do next, John drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, body and mind exhausted. 

 

The next days and weeks were straining. 

There was a regular delivery of bland, heated food twice a day.  
Fresh apples and vitamins as well as iron and magnesium pills were provided as part of the diet.  
Two bottles of water were always refilled. 

The other man, Sebastian, was quiet, but his eyes mocked John when he tried to tentatively strike a conversation, and his friendly questions were answered by sarcastic remarks or silence.  
Sebastian was wearing a collar, but he also sported a fresh brand on his chest. 

JM. 

John shivered when he first saw it.  
Asked if he should have a look at the healing process, him being a doctor and all.  
That was the one and only time Sebastian growled at him, eyes flashing anger. 

John did not ask again.

As his watch had been taken from him, he tried to track time though the meals and his own sleep cycle, but without any light from the outside it was hard to tell whether hours or days had passed.  
On what John considered the second day a young woman entered, wearing latex gloves and a mask, setting down a small tray holding two empty blood bags, sterile needles and tubes, a small bottle of alcohol and cotton pads. 

A tall, strong looking woman entered the room behind her, her eyes narrowed as she watched John and Sebastian closely.  
“This one.” She motioned towards John.  
The young woman nodded silently. “Your left arm please.”

John stared at the two women standing before him. He had enough time to think about his situation during the last day, and while depression had been lurking over him, anger had taken over.  
He had fought for the freedom of the human race only a couple of days ago, and he would not stop now. Really, he knew that it was more or less futile to stand up by himself against two vampires, but  
John realized that it was important for his soul as well as his mind. 

So he leaned back.  
Crossed his arms, pulling the legs up on the mattress. Shaking his head.  
“No.”  
Sebastian gave him a quick look. There was almost something like surprise and admiration in his eyes. Almost. 

The young woman pulled her shoulders in for a moment, making John wonder if she actually was vampire at all. She gave the tall woman behind her a quick glance.  
The vampire gave a heavy sigh and shrugged.  
‘I give you no more than 3 minutes Molly. Then I am taking over.”  
The girl nodded, then quickly removed the mask that covered her mouth.  
She sank down on the mattress next to John, her brown eyes flicking up to his face for a moment.

“What is your name?” Her eyes were large and brown. And sad.  
Not vampire, John decided.

“John. John Watson.”

She smiled, shy and small, not showing too many teeth.  
Still, no fangs.  
Definitely Human.  
He relaxed ever so slightly.  
“Hi John, I am Molly. Nice to meet you. I need to take your blood. I believe you are new to being a Bond-Servant?”  
John nodded, his mouth a thin line. His arms went tighter around his upper body.

“Yeah, I thought so.” Molly took a deep sigh. “It can be hard in the beginning, but once you get used to it, it is not so bad. Depending on your vampire, of course, but believe me, most of them are really reasonable, especially if you do as you are asked. I can tell you though, if you resist, they can be harsh beyond means….”  
There was a snort from the vampire behind her.  
It did not stop Molly.  
“I know that you used to be part of the resistance, and that this must seem like a … cruel test of fate. But John, fighting this now will not change anything for you.” Molly leaned in closer, almost whispering.  
“Each of us finds our own way of coping.” She hesitated for a moment, her voice almost whispering when she continued: “I know you belong to master Sherlock. He is…”

There was a low rumble from the vampire in the back.  
“Molly!”  
It was clearly a warning.

Molly straightened, her eyes flicking back to the woman. But her mouth had set in a tight, resolute line. Her hand settled on John’s for a moment, the warm touch comforting beyond what John would have thought possible.  
“John Watson, you will be fine. You are a fighter. The vampires will win this war. You were part of the resistance. But you will be fine. You are going to get through this. And believe me when I say you won’t be able to do this by resisting me now. But with bending. Please.”

John stared at her a moment, feeling a pang of sadness when her hand withdrew. 

She watched him. 

John slowly shook his head. 

“I am sorry Molly. I am not a slave. And I never will be.”

There was a snort from Sebastian’s bed.  
And then, with a growl, the vampire descended on him. 

Pain. 

 

Pain.

 

PAIN.

 

The lady who had been standing by the door had not even given him a second after he had backed off, turning down Molly’s proposition. Later he did not know why he had not given in.  
With movements that were unnaturally fast, she had slammed him against the wall, knocking his head back, then he was lifted off his feet.  
John felt himself flying through the air, landing on the heavy, concrete floor. The air was knocked from his lungs with a loud woooosh. He received two strong smacks to his face, then a straight hit to his solar plexus that had him gagging for air, struggling like a fish on land.  
Dr. Watson felt himself flipped on his stomach, his left arm pulled to the side with a steely grip, and then his right arm was twisted up and sideways, pulling a scream from his lungs. His hand was squeezed in a way that was more painful than anything he had ever experienced before.  
The vampire twisted a little longer, then she let go of him, allowing John to catch his breath for a moment. She placed two more strategically located kicks into his liver area, making him arch under the pain.  
Finally, when he was immobilized on the floor, she pulled him back towards his bed, bundling his wrists together zip-strapped them to the foot of the bed. 

She stood, not even breathing heavily.

“We will now need for the adrenalin to wear off. We are back in a couple of hours. Then we will try this once more, _John_. You can think about whether you want to play along then.”  
With a flick of her hand she motioned Molly to come along. 

The young woman gave John another sad glance, then she picked up her tray and left. 

John was cowering on the cold floor, chest heaving from the pain, trying to suck oxygen into his lungs.  
He could hear Sebastian laugh from the other bed.  
“John Watson, you have balls of steel. And I believe they will neuter you faster than you can spell Revolution if you keep this up.”

And John wondered for the hundredth time why he thought that he had to play hero in this god-damned war.

 

After about an hour of lying painfully on the floor, John started to shiver.  
The coldness of the concrete was seeping through his clothes, and after a while he made up his mind to ask Sebastian for the blanket from his bed.  
The blond man had stared at him for a moment, and John had sternly kept himself from begging, shifting slightly to be able to keep the gaze of the other prisoner. The shaking of his body took away from the anger in his eyes.  
Finally, with a grunt Sebastian had pushed himself off his bed and took the blanket, staring down at John, grinning slightly. John had set his mouth in a hard line and shuffled his body, wincing at the pain, lifting his stomach off the floor by balancing on his elbows and knees.  
“Could you please put it under me? The floor is cold.” John’s teeth were chattering.  
Sebastian let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Look at you, Watson, already practicing to be a slut? Your ass looks nice all high up in the air.”  
“Fuck you, you fucking prick.” John lowered himself, spitting his anger at the laughing man.  
Chuckling, Sebastian dropped the blanket and pushed it towards John with his foot.  
John shimmied onto it, body aching, from the beating, his muscles spasming from the cold.  
He wiggled until he had most of the blanket under him, then relaxed back down.  
Better.  
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and jumped, digging the plastic straps painfully into his wrists.  
“No worries doctor, not interested.” The voice was strangely soothing, and John relaxed slightly as Sebastian pulled the blanket around him, wrapping him roughly into a cocoon of scratchy warmth.  
John had mumbled an angry thank you, resulting in an amused snort by his cell mate.

 

When Molly walked in later, John did not move.  
He was still curled in a small ball but had stopped shivering; unfortunately by now the straps had cut of a large amount of the blood flow to his hands, and they had gone numb.  
They would hurt like fuck once his circulation would be restored. 

Molly kneeled next to him and cut the straps silently.  
He gasped at the pain when the blood rushed back into his fingers, first prickling like ants but soon the pain got worse, and John just bit his lip and started to rub his fingers and hands in slow circular motions.  
Molly gave him a second, then she helped him sit up, leaning him back against the frame of his bed.  
“Ok then, I am going to take your blood now. Your left arm please.”  
John looked at her for a moment before he lifted his left arm, watching as she pushed the sweater up then fastened the rubber tube around the top.  
He did not move as he watched her swipe his armpit with the cold alcohol, take the sterile needle from its plastic wrapping, attaching it to the tube.  
“Fist.” Her voice was low.  
John did as he was told.  
The needle entered his flesh with hardly a sting, and he opened his clenched fingers, watching as the blood ran through the tube into the prepared blood bag. 

Molly took half a pint of blood.  
Not the maximum amount that they could have taken.  
So they were being careful as he had already been fed on.  
How… considerate. 

When finished Molly pulled out the needle and gave him a small piece of cotton to push against the injection site.  
Her eyes wandered over his body. “Can I check your injuries? Eve is very good only administering pain and not any real damage, but I would like to check if I may?”

He hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. 

Molly was extremely careful as she pulled up his sweater, letting her fingers trail over his skin where bruises were blossoming in angry red’s. She quickly checked the back of his head, carefully, and then let fingers run over his ribs to make sure nothing was broken. She finished by looking at his hands and wrists, pushing her fingers carefully into the flesh.  
There was nothing.  
Molly nodded and smiled. “I think you will be fine. I am sorry, I can’t give you any painkillers, for we do not know when Sherlock will come by to get you. Sorry.”  
But when she leaned forward as she pulled down his sweater once more, he could feel a small tube pressed into his hand.  
It was likely to be a hidden gesture, but John could hear the growl instantaneously: “Molly!”

Molly froze, then turned, packing her things together. 

“He is in pain. This will lessen it. You did quite a number on him, Eve!”

She stood, with the tray in her hand.

Her gaze burned into Eve’s, not wavering.  
Eve grinned, fangs flashing.  
“Mmmmm. Rebellious today, are we? Fine. Let him apply it now, take the tube. God knows what he would do with it.”

John quickly opened the tube and slathered the cream generously on what he could see, wincing at the tenderness of his flesh. Molly leaned over to help him with his back.  
The cream was hot on his skin, but he was sure that it would take some of the pain away as soon as it soaked in.

He glanced at Eve, then turned to Molly when she was close to his face: “I hope I did not get you into trouble with her?”  
Molly looked at him with her big, brown eyes, and then grinned.  
“For some reason, when it comes to me her bark is worse than her bite.” She took the tube and gave him a quick nod.  
She stood in front of Eve, holding out the medicine.  
“Isn’t that so, Eve?”  
Eve grinned, then pulled Molly towards her, pressing herself against the much smaller body. She steadied the hand holding the fresh blood bag, with her other pulling Molly towards her, lowering her face for a long, lingering kiss.  
Not something John would have expected.  
Molly did not struggle but staid still. When she was released once more, she did not turn back towards the two silent prisoners in the white room.  
“I think you will find out what my bite is like tonight sweetheart.” Eve’s eyes were surprisingly soft as she stroked over Molly’s brown hair.

And with that they left.

Sebastian gave a loud laugh next to him.  
“Well, that will fuel my wank fantasies for a while to come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I am so sorry, plotbunnies are holding me hostage and I am trying to escape.  
> I SWEAR Sherlock is coming back next chapter. 
> 
> Oh yeah, I am currently having loads of fun on tumblr and have a whole of 10 followers  Do please add me if you feel like it. http://cumberbitch07.tumblr.com/


	6. Home Sweet HOme

The bruises on John’s body had turned a glorious blue and black and then slowly started to fade, turning yellow around the edges.   
John turned from agitated to depressed to bored.   
He asked for books and received a small variety.   
He snorted at the old copy of 1984 by George Orwell (really not the time and place to read a dystopia, now was it…), then picked up some medical magazines that were thrown in the bunch as well. He found he could lose himself in the science, and almost forget where he was for a while. 

He tried to pass his time with sleeping, but found that he could not.

Nightmares started to occur more and more often, he could see the dead and dying, mainly all the people he had not helped, the ones he had passed when making his way to Buckingham Palace.  
They now haunted his dreams.   
Sebastian would slap him when he started screaming, telling him to shut the fuck up.   
John did not mind the harsh treatment, not really.   
After all, it pulled him from his nightmares.

For some reason, with the time passing, he had almost felt safe in this little cell, staring at the ceiling, reading, eating regularly, and daydreaming.   
Maybe Sherlock would be killed in the war.  
Maybe the vampires would lose and him and all the others would be freed.   
Maybe his friends knew where he was and would come to rescue him.   
Maybe….  
Sebastian would work out several times a day and John would watch him run in circles, perform push-ups and sit-ups by the hundreds. He did try moving himself, but his body was not happy with him at the moment, so he stayed put. 

 

2 weeks later Sherlock stepped into the room.  
John had not been expecting it.

The tall, lanky man walked in with an air of importance, and his eyes wandered almost lazily over Sebastian before they stopped on John.   
John cringed, but forced his body so stay still as he was approached by the much taller vampire.  
His eyes were defiant and lingered on Sherlock’s face as he stopped closer. 

“Stand, Watson.”

John hesitated for a moment, then he slowly climbed out of his bed and stood. He slung his arms around his body, a natural protective reaction, and once he noticed it he forced his hands down to his sides.   
His chin jutted out defiantly.

Sherlock’s hand flew up, making John flinch, but the vampire just took the smaller man’s jaws into his hands and turned his face into different directions.  
“Mmmmmm. I was told that you resisted having your blood taken.   
I am surprised by this, Watson, I would have thought that you were smarter than that.   
I do hope that I won’t have any troubles with you?”

Sherlock stared at him with his unnatural pale blue-green eyes, and John shook his head slowly.   
The vampire pulled a face. His voice was sharp when he addressed John once more.  
“When I ask you a question, _servant_ I expect a verbal answer, followed by sir. Is that understood?” 

“Yes…..sir.” John swallowed heavily. 

Sherlock nodded and pulled a large collar from the pockets of his coat. It was bronze metal, around 4 cm wide with a large O-ring in the front and an open lock on the back.   
The collar itself showed slight scratches and scuffmarks, the inside was padded with worn leather indicating that it had been worn before. There was a small engraving on each side of the O-ring, written in curly, old-fashioned characters.   
John read it with a shudder. ‘Property of Sherlock Holmes.’

The man that had placed the current collar on him stepped up and released the metal band, before Sherlock bent over to slip the new collar around John’s neck.   
For a moment panic overcame John, and he wanted to run, to fight, bite and claw, but his body stayed still as the surprisingly soft leather touched his throat and he heard the lock snap close with a sharp sound.   
The collar covered more of his neck and also slightly tighter than the one he had been wearing before, lying quite snug against his skin.  
It surprised John, as he had thought that such a wide collar would keep a vampire from biting him.   
But maybe….maybe that was the intension.   
To deter anyone but Sherlock to feed from him.   
To ensure that they knew that he was taken.   
Bound-Servant.

John’s gaze never left Sherlock’s eyes when he attached a thin chain to the O-ring in front of his collar and gave it an experimental tug. 

“All right then. I shall sign you out and then we can go home, Watson. The war is over. Time to go home.”

 

The sign-out procedure was anti-climactic.

Sherlock scribbled his name on the bottom of a contract, and then pricked John’s thumb with his fang, pressing the bleeding digit onto the paper for mere seconds, leaving a red smudge under the area ‘Bound-Servant’.  
John could see his information filled into blanks in curly handwriting, and he shuddered when he saw that his address, marital status, weight and height had been recorded as well as his parents and sisters’ whereabouts and blood-types.   
It was horrifying.   
4 full pages with information about Dr. John Watson.   
Personal information.  
Very personal.   
There was even his favourite food and most visited porn-site on there.   
_For Christ Sake_

Sherlock gave John another tug and pulled him out along with him.   
John followed in a daze.

 

They walked straight into Mycroft on their way out. 

John lowered his head when he saw the leader, towering even above Sherlock as he crossed the large empty warehouse.   
“Sherlock” The smile on Mycroft Holmes face was unsettling and clearly insincere. “What a surprise. Here to pick up…what was his name…John? I thought we were going to discuss this first?”

Sherlock stilled, glowering at his brother. John stood, staring at the two men.  
He felt like he was watching two worlds collide. 

“Kneel, Watson.” Sherlock’s voice was low and dangerous. 

John’s brain did not work fast. “What?”

Sherlock gave a sharp hiss and his hand shot towards John collar and it closed up around his throat.   
‘I said _kneel_!”   
John sank to his knees, slowly chocking, his hands grabbing the collar, trying to get air, any amount, precious air….When he rested on his knees, Sherlock let go, and John gulped in deep breaths into his lungs greedily.   
_He was wearing a Fucking choke collar! For Fuck’s sake_

“See, and that is what I mean Sherlock.” Mycroft tutted disapproving, waving his hand at John on the floor. “I am just here to make sure that this does not end the way it did with your last 4 servants. Like Pascale. Because, really, you upset a lot of people by wasting precious donors like that. We don’t really want this to happen again, now do we?”

“ _Don’t talk to me about Pascale!_ ” The words were hissed more than spoken, and John could see Sherlock’s whole body tense. He cowered lower. 

“Fine.” Mycroft gave a shrug. “Not Pascale then. How about the last one? I don’t even remember his name. Did not last long, did he?”

“That was a long time ago, Mycroft . About 40 years I believe? And he was an idiot, as you know! ”

“Yes, and I can see how you have changed treating your bond-servants.” Mycrofts voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I am just worried about you Sherlock. You have been alone for a very long time. Maybe I should take care of John here first, and ….train….him before passing him on? You are welcome to stay with me for a couple of days. Feed on him. Watch his training. He is still new and may upset you.”

“No. We will be fine. I am not a child, Myrcoft.”

“Ah, but you are. A 500 year old child, but a child nonetheless.” Mycroft lowered his eyes to John. “Well, I can tell you though, if you break this one, the council will not allow you another donor for at least 200 years. Do you understand that?” 

Sherlock was gritting his teeth. “Get out of my way, Mycroft.”

To John’s surprise, the taller man stepped to the side.

There was another tug on John’s chain, and he stumbled to his feet, as he continued to follow Sherlock. He could hear the dark voice of their new leader calling up behind them: “Just remember that he is only human Sherlock. You will need patience. If you don’t think you have it in you, call me. I will check on you and John in a couple of days. “  
“You are NOT welcome!”  
Mycroft giggled in the darkness behind them.   
“Ah, but Sherlock, you would have it no other way.”

 

There was a cab waiting for them outside, and Sherlock impatiently ripped open the door before he shoved John into the backseat, sliding in next to him.   
The driver took off the moment the door closed, obviously aware of where they were going.   
The drive was very long and very silent and very, VERY tense.   
John sat and tried to blend into the seats.   
Sherlock ignored him, his fingers fiddling, his knees jerking in a constant rhythm. 

 

They drove back to London.   
Driving through the streets, John could not keep himself from looking outside. 

It was dark, but it was still obvious that there had been a war.   
London had burned.   
It had burned for a long time, and it seemed to John like most of the buildings were covered in black soot. 

The streets were eerily empty.   
No corpses.   
And no people.   
No people at all.   
Just a couple of cars.  
Then again it was the dead of night.   
But it was London.   
There were ALWAYS people on the streets in London. 

John wondered how many had died.  
God, he did not even know what day it was.   
How long the war lasted.

He also wondered how many of his friends were still alive.   
Mum. Dad. Harry.   
Anyone. 

But he bit his tongue, scanning the streets as they continued to drive.

 

With the streets empty the way they were, the cab progressed rather quickly, and finally pulled into Baker Street.   
That’s where they stopped.   
For some reason John was surprised.   
He had expected Sherlock to live in London, yes, but knowing about his connection to the leader and therefore his influence he kind of had expected…well, Buckingham Palace or something large and impressive.   
Even a new Skyrise Penthouse or a large estate or something …grand.

But where they stopped was… well, yes, certainly it was a great location and a good place to live, but not something he would have believed a vampire to choose as his home.   
Especially a single, male, arrogant ass of a vampire. 

Sherlock got out of the cab without thanking the driver.  
John did.   
It was a reflex. Silly, yes. But most reflexes are.

This part of London had burned as well, though less severely than some of the other areas they had passed. There used to be a café on the ground floor of the building Holmes was heading to, but it had burned out, the windows smashed. John could read “Spe…” but that was about it. 

The front door opened smoothly once Sherlock unlocked it, and John followed him before he could tug impatiently on his chain that still connected them, closing the door carefully behind him.   
They walked up two flights of stairs, walls covered in ugly retro bamboo wallpaper, the air smelling of stale smoke. 

Sherlock opened the door to the apartment and walked into…

 

….Well…..

 

…a mess. 

John would not have been able to describe it any different if he would have tried. 

On his first glance he could see a couple of old mismatched furniture spread around the living room, books and journals on every available surface, an old small TV in one corner, the kitchen full of glassware that John would have expected from a lab…. 

It was chaos.

Pure chaos. 

NOT the vampire lair John had expected.   
No sir. 

John stopped at the door, scanning the room silently while Sherlock whipped the scarf from his throat. He had dropped John’s chain and peeled himself out of his coat, throwing it without a second glance onto the armchair.

Well.   
That would explain the way this place looked. 

Sherlock turned towards John, glaring down at him with his unnaturally pale eyes. 

“Fine then, Watson, here we are. I am going to explain some ground rules to you now. I will not repeat myself. Understood?”

John nodded, then reminded himself about the painful lesson he had earlier and cleared his throat.   
“Yes sir.”

“If anything is unclear, you may ask.”

Sherlock stepped up to John, who forced himself not to back off.   
With quick, sure movements he detached the chain from John’s collar, and then dropped it on top of his coat. 

“First of, you are as of now my Bound-Servant.  
My property.  
Your passport is with me.   
You are not allowed to leave or go anywhere without my permission. You are not to speak unless spoken to.”  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. The speed of his words were mind-boggeling.   
“If I give you a command, you will drop everything else and do it. You don’t question my motives or requests. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I say jump, you do so.   
Other vampires are not allowed to command over you or feed from you without my clear permission. Still, you will be polite towards any vampire you meet, address them with Sir and Ma’am. As I will be feeding from you, you are expected to eat healthy meals on a regular basis, not use alcohol, cigarettes or drugs without my exact permission. You will sleep regularly. You are not to harm yourself in any way. Any actions against the rules I have just given will result in punishment. Any kind of chastisement will be painful and humiliating. Therefore I suggest you do as you are told.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and glowered down at John.   
“Questions?”

John swallowed hard.   
His mind was foggy.   
“What about my job…apartment…?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow’s rose.  
“You have no job. You live here. You have nothing else to do but serve. Your apartment has been emptied, your things sent to your parents. They are aware of your position. I do hope you understand me correctly, Watson, you are not to leave this place without my permission. You will not go where you are not told to….”

“You mean I am your slave!” John burst out. His hand had dropped and fisted at his sides.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed once more. He took a deep breath. His voice was barely audible when he spoke.   
“Mycroft has told me to be patient with you, Watson. Well then. I will make this very, very clear for you. Just this once.  
Yes, you are my slave. I can and will do with you as I please. The next time you raise your voice at me, I will beat you. Hard.  
You lost your rights as a free human. You are a spoil of war, as part of the resistance you lost any chance of ever regaining your freedom again.   
You are mine, to with as I please. If I wish it, you will spend the rest of your life chained to a bed to be fed on and used any way I see fit. If you do not say as I command, you will suffer. I will make you hurt. There is nothing you can do that would stop me from taking what is mine. So don’t try.   
You are a donor, so I will not kill you. But the quality of your remaining life is as of this moment is really, REALLY up to you and the way you behave around me.”  
Sherlock leaned forward, grabbing John’s collar at his O-ring, pulling him towards him.   
“DO. YOU.UNDERSTAND, WATSON?”

John sank to his knees, eyes wide in fear.   
“Yes sir.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. 

Sherlock’s pale eyes roamed his face, then he abruptly let him go. 

“Of course, if you behave and serve me well, privileges can be introduced. We can discuss this further at a later point in time.”

He combed his fingers through his errant curls and turned.   
“Get up, Watson, I will now show you the house.”

Sherlock pointed towards the living room  
“It shall be your job to keep this place clean. My last housekeeper left months ago, and I have not had the chance to look for someone since. If you don’t know where anything goes, ask me. Do not move my journals or books; I have a special index that you would not understand. Do not disrupt it. ”

He turned towards the kitchen.   
“As you may have noticed, I do experiments here. I expect you to clean the dirty glassware, the counters etc. DO NOT TOUCH ANY OF MY EXPERIMENTS.   
Ask if you are not sure. I realize you may need part of the fridge and stove for cooking your meals. You can clear what you need as long as you do not touch what may be important for me. It is your job to keep the fridge stocked with healthy food choices for yourself. You can order online. There is a shop that delivers. Also, you will make sure that there is always sufficient blood for me. I feed daily, and prefer blood type AB, male donor, age 28-42, no alcohol in the system, no vegetarians. If that is not available, others will do, but I absolutely do never drink from a female who is menstruating. Also, make sure that the anti-coagulant that is used is NOT EDTA but Heparin or Citrate. Understood?”  
John nodded in a daze as he continued to stare at the counter.   
There was blood coagulating in small puddles next to the stove and in the corner was a jar with floating fingers. Eyeballs in a petri-dish. And clearly the human remains were weeks old, for they had started to rot.   
John realized that he had been locked up with an absolute madman. 

With a wave of the hand, Sherlock continued on.   
John, dazed, followed him, not sure what else to do.  
They continued up the stairs. 

“Bathroom. Clean it. You can take the towels you need. Laundromat is around the corner I believe. You will do laundry once a week, more often if needed.”

Next was a bedroom behind a glass-paned door. 

John was surprised by the large room with the wooden king-size bed with white cotton covers, the floor littered with clothes. There was a periodic table on the wall, a framed picture with Chinese characters over the bed and several photos around the room.   
It was less messy than the living room, but the jumble of what looked like second-hand furniture and obvious scientific artefacts made it clear that Sherlock Holmes was not interested in interior decorations.  
A closer look revealed O-rings and chains attached to the wall around the bed, and John wished he had kept his eyes to where Sherlock was pointing. 

“My bedroom.” The vampire turned towards John, his face screwed in distaste. “I hope you did not expect a coffin in a basement, Watson, many humans do, what utter rubbish. Really makes one wonder about the intelligence of the average person.”   
He grunted. “You will not enter here unless you are told to. Of course, if you spend the night here, you will not _leave_ without my permission. My wardrobe is outside. All the clothes are kept in a certain order; I will give you a list how to keep the index. I expect you to apply it meticulously.”

_Spend the night? What the…_

Sherlock left the room and John followed up another staircase, his thoughts jumbled, the steps creaking under their feet.   
On the highest floor was one small room that could be entered through a dark, wooden door; it contained a single bed with a thin blanket and the rest of the room was packed with boxes and suit cases, an old bicycle, two old TV’s and broken scientific equipment.   
There was a thick layer of dust on everything. 

“This is your room. As you can see, it has not been used for a while. You will sleep here unless I am in need of your services during the night. You will always make sure to get 8 hours of sleep, even though my hours are quite irregular, you may not always be able to. You are allowed to remind me if you lack sleep. I tend to forget. When you wake, you will first either let me feed or make sure we are stocked on blood reserves, then work on your chores. If I am not home, I will leave you a list of things to do.”

Sherlock closed the door to John’s room with a bang, turned and looked down at the smaller man. 

“Questions, Watson?”

John just stared at him. His mind had stopped at ‘services for the night’ - actually it had already stopped downstairs when Sherlock had mentioned him spending the night in the vampire’s bedroom. 

He knew that some vampires used their servants for Sex.  
Depraved, perverted Sex.   
Everyone knew that.  
It was a well-known fact that vampires were highly sexualised creatures.   
It was general knowledge that feeding was often (if not always) combined with either intercourse or some other strenuous activity like fighting or running to be able to work of some of the excess energy that would settle in them once they had fed. 

It just hadn’t occurred to him….  
John Watson was not gay.   
He had never…been with a man.   
And he really did not want to start now.   
Especially not with an mad, arrogant prick of asshole vampire. 

Sherlock continued to stare at him. 

John realized he had been asked a question.   
He already forgot what it had been. 

“What?”

The vampire’s eyes glittered in the low light, and he bared his teeth. 

“Weren’t you listening, human?”

“I…I was…I just…please…” John started to stutter. Sweat pearled from his brow, and he swallowed hard. Then he remembered. “No. No questions, sir. Sorry, sir. It is just a little much to…to…”

Sherlock relaxed and made his way back down the stairs. 

“Follow me Watson. I am starving.”

John gulped down his fear that bubbled in his stomach.  
So it was to be now then.   
And so John Watson very very slowly followed Sherlock down the stairs.


	7. The sweetness of your pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmmm.  
> I feel like I really need to warn before this chapter. 
> 
> This is very explicit porn and really major dub-con / John kinda liking it….but yeah, non-con kind of chapter.   
> If you have triggers, I would skip it. Seriously.   
> Also, vampire bites are almost like drugs, so maybe watch out for non-con drug use?  
> I am sure there is more to mention.  
> Let’s just say no-one should read it, and if you do and you enjoy it, you will go to hell with me.   
> Yeah. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

Sherlock spoke when they had reached the living room once more. “Now that we have the introduction out of the way, I need to feed. It has been a tiring uprising and I haven’t had donor blood for days.”

John turned cold, then hot. 

He took a step back, shivers running down his back, his hands fisting at his side.   
He could feel cold sweat break out on his forehead, pool in the nape of his neck as he continued to walk backwards, unconsciously, until he hit the wall next to the door.  
He knew it futile to try to escape, but for one short moment he wished he could just open it and run, run as fast and far as he could. 

Until now, he had been able to pretend this would not happen…  
To bed fed on….and then…. _and then_ …..

Of course he remembered the last time Sherlock had bit him, the pain, how mind-blowingly cruel it had been, and the idea for him to suffer through this once more and then god knows what Sherlock would do to him then…everyone knew what Bound-Servants were used for…he felt his knees give way slightly, and pushed himself back up, chin standing out, eyes glaring.

Sherlock had watched him, crinkling his nose in slight disgust. 

“I can smell your fear all the way across the room, Watson, and even though I do sometimes relish in its taste, it is not what I had in mind for now. I have tasted you fearful, panicked and in pain, now I want to taste you feeling pleasure. I believe Mycroft has shown you that a bite can be arousing, yes? Well, I am also able to give you the sensation. And I would like to experiment how different emotions change your taste. So relax, Watson, you will enjoy this.”

_Pleasurable? Arousing?  
He is going to bite me…feed on me…it will hurt and then…then…God, please, please pleasepleasepleaseplease_

Sherlock stepped up to the desk in the living room, calmly pushing a chair to the side, shifting some papers so that the main part of the wood was free of clutter.

“Come here, Watson.”

“I…I don’t want to…” John put all his effort into his voice, to keep it from trembling.   
It did not work.  
He was pathetic. 

Sherlock was in front of him within the blink of an eye, pushing him harshly against the wall.   
“John, I am not very patient, and it is up to you how your stay here will be from now on.  
It can be either extremely demeaning and very painful, or you can follow my orders and I will be able to give you pleasure you have not experienced before. It is your choice, and you have to make it now. But know this, I have no problems keeping you tied and naked in a room until the day you die, to be fed on and fucked at my pleasure, _I have done it before_ , DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

John could feel shivers running over his body, and it took him his whole self-restraint not to collapse.  
“Yes, sir” he mumbled, knowing that being restrained would take any chance from him to ever flee from the grasps of this absolute madman. 

A powerful hand settled the back of his neck, curling around the cold, metal collar that enclosed it, turning John away from him, and then he was pulled backwards into Sherlock’s tall, rigid body, his neck being almost gently tilted to one side.

Sherlock’s mouth caressed the skin under his chin, pulling a sob from John’s throat as he tensed, expecting the pain that he knew would come next. 

“Relax, John, it will hurts less. Just relax.” The voice was deep, dark, almost erotic.   
As if he was trying to seduce him.

John tried to calm his body; he really did, with long fingers rubbing soothingly over his arm, his neck scarily exposed. He felt the vampire’s teeth ghost along his skin, searching, willing himself not to tense, but then the sharp pain from the expected bite rushed through him, and he could not hold back the pained moan that escaped his lips. 

The first second it was agony, then the sting eased into a warm pressure, and John felt himself relax as a warm flood of pleasure washed through him.  
He sank back against the vampire that cradled him in his arms, melting against the tall body and then closed his eyes when the sensation turned sexual, arousing even, his cock twitching in his pants, and he moaned under his breath while his hands grabbed to hold on to the cold skin of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock pulled back, and pushed some sweaty strands of hair out of John’s face.   
“How do you feel, Watson? Better?” Sherlock’s voice was a deep purr as he nuzzled and then placed small, needy bites behind John’s ear.   
“God, yes.”  
“Afraid?” the voice coming from behind him was pure sex, and John leaned back, his hands running over the muscled wall, aroused, needy and searching…for…for something.  
“No. I am good.” He felt himself smile.   
Sherlock hummed in approval and returned to Watson’s neck, sucking greedily at the salty life blood that was trickling freely from his donor’s body, and John groaned as he bucked his hips at the intimate sensation of the act. 

John’s mind was fogged, but he knew he wanted to touch the man behind him, lusted to be touched himself, to be held, to be…. _to be_ ….sweat breaking from every pore on his body, as his skin became more and more sensitive, his rough clothes rubbing almost painfully against his nipples and crotch.  
He squirmed, feeling his life pulsing against the cold lips that were pressed against his sweaty skin, dropping his own hand to his rising erection, palming himself through several layers of fabric as the need to release got stronger and stronger the longer the vampire drank.  
John needed to _feel_ , to _enjoy_ the different reactions his body had, shivering as hands ran over his naked skin, the sensations so familiar yet so very new. 

Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers now pushed under the thick, scratchy sweater while he continued to drink, more slowly now, curling his tongue around the small wounds of John’s neck, closing them up before he continued licking with a rough cat-like tongue along the back of his neck, making him shiver and then sinking his teeth into the other side of his slave’s clavicle. 

Johns screamed, the penetration of the teeth jolting straight into his groin, and he spasmed in Sherlock’s grip, leaking pre-come, his free hand reaching back to dig into the vampire’s soft curls, drawing him closer while his other fisted his cock. 

Sherlock pulled back, laughing under his breath. 

“Well then, John Watson, this is a nice surprise.”

He leaned in close, whispering into the smaller man’s ear: “I want you to undress for me now and then wait over at the desk.”

John almost fell when the arms of the vampire suddenly released him, and he stumbled, head floating from desire and need.   
His limbs felt like he was under water as he slowly pulled the sweater and shirt over his head, dropping them onto the floor. He opened his trousers by the pull-string that held them in place and then pushed them down along with his pants. Once he was fully naked safe for his socks, he padded over to the table Sherlock had pointed to, keeping his eyes to the floor as dizziness engulfed him. 

His whole body was humming with electricity, and John slowly lifted a hand to his face. He groaned when he touched his own lips, the sensation magnified hundredfold, like lightening shooting though his body. He leaned forward, facing the table, steading his swaying body as he sucked his own fingers into his mouth, groaning.

“My dear Watson, you are a sight to behold.” Sherlock had come down the stairs, holding a bottle of lubricant, staring at his naked slave gripping the table with one hand, his other trailing over his face, then down to his nipples, relishing the intense sensation that his body was offering. 

John turned slowly towards the vampire, steading himself as his knees continued to wobble, his hand trailing down his stomach until it hit the patch of honeyed curls surrounding his erection. 

Somewhere, far in the back of his mind he knew that Dr. John Hamish Watson would never do such a thing, that this was not him, that it was somehow not right.  
He knew that he should ……stop……. _STOP FOR CHRIST’S SAKE_ ………but the primal urges of his body requested him to continue, to do what felt so right, so good, so _natural_ and so he did. 

He drew in a gasp as his fingers closed around the root of his penis, the sensation so much stronger than anything he had ever known before, and he had to lean back as his knees gave way.

Sherlock continued to watch him, a small smirk in the corner of his mouth as he slowly unzipped his own trousers, pulling his own long, partially erect cock from his pants, opening the bottle of lube with a snap of the cap. He calmly squeezed a generous amount into his palm, then started to slowly stroke himself to full hardness, starting at the tip, pulling back his foreskin and then enclosing his length with his fist, pushing into it.

John stopped masturbating, not able to avert his eyes from the long, slightly purplish cock emerging from the pale fist of Sherlock, not fully erect yet but rising slowly.  
He licked his dry lips.   
Sherlock never stopped staring at John while his hand continued to pump. 

John shook his head, a sensation like he was stuck under water.  
He KNEW he should be worried about this situation.  
He had been earlier.   
It was just…he had forgotten why.   
And it was so very hard to think about anything else than the desire to be touched….

Sherlock now walked towards him, his cock jutting proudly from his pants, and John was compliant as Sherlock gently turned him to face the table and leaned into him, pushing him forward, folding him over the desk. 

He allowed himself to sink down until his cheek rested on the rough wood, relaxing into the touch of strangely cold fingers caressing his skin, one hand between his shoulder blades holding him down, the other stroking between his ass cheeks, carefully sliding up and down his perineum, circling the untouched hole down there.  
He strained into the touch that was so intimate and unknown, but felt so very good.   
The hand withdrew from his ass and he whined at the loss of contact, but then could feel cold, sticky lube sliding down his crack, and then a cold finger pushed slowly inside him. 

 

The slow slide burned and the intrusion felt… _strange_ …and for a split second he tensed at the unknown sensation, but then he relaxed once more as his cock turned rock hard, his balls pulling towards his body.  
John whimpered under his breath as this was exactly what he had craved and he felt himself push back into the finger, a whine escaping his lips as his hot flesh was penetrated even further.  
“Shhhhhh….” Sherlock leaned into him, his cold lips nuzzling his shoulder blades beneath the collar, cool breath ghosting over his sensitive flesh.

John’s fingers curled against the wood as he slowly pressed back into the digit that was in his arse, until it was buried within him all the way to the knuckle, gasping when Sherlock curled it slightly, rotating it to open him up further.   
He circled his own hips wantonly, widening his stance, ignoring the small, breathless laugh from above him, and then the finger withdrew in a slow, _slow_ slide just to be joined by a second finger that once more circled teasingly around his hole.   
“God, please…” John’s breath was short and came in short gasps, and then both fingers breached him in a surprising harsh push, rocking his hips against the table, burning, sliding, _penetrating_ deeply.  
Sherlock stood tall, reaching for the lube once more, drizzling it over where his fingers were burrowed deep in John’s ass, sliding them in and out to spread it further inside him.   
He added so much that the slide was almost too slippery, but when a third finger was added, John hissed at the stretch of ‘almost too much’.

Still the vampire pushed in relentlessly, the excess of lubricant easing the way, pulling out and pushing back in, rhythm and speed picking up gradually, and John could feel the sweat running down his back as he rotated his hips, the pain easing into pleasure, growling to get Sherlock to go deeper, faster, MORE…..

When the fingers pulled out, John whimpered, his upper body lifting to see what Sherlock was doing, but he was pushed back down and then he could feel the vampire’s cock align itself with his hole as Sherlock gripped himself at the root, and then slowly, carefully pushed into his bound-servants body. 

John’s moan came from deep within him as the cock slid into his stretched arse, patiently and slow, stopping every couple of centimetres to give his body the time it needed to adjust to the stretch. Sherlock had to focus not to pound into the flesh beneath him, but he wanted the blood of his new slave to be pure with pleasure, not tainted with pain, and so he enjoyed watching his cock slowly disappear into the clenched hole of Watson beneath him.

Finally the vampire was flush against John’s arse, undulating his hips, pulling a bark from the shaking body beneath him as he hit the highly sensitive walls of Watson’s rectum and skimmed his prostate. 

“Oh my GOD, OH MY GOD…OH MY GOOOOODDDDD….”

Sherlock decided that his needy slave was nice and ready, and with that he pulled out and fucked back into John’s body in one punishing thrust.   
John wailed, pushing his hands against the table to press back, and the two men found a hard rhythm as they moved against each other, the slap, slap, slap of slick flesh loud in the room, underlined by the heavy breathing and occasional curses by John.   
He could feel the orgasm building inside him as Sherlock continued to hit his prostate, a spider web of electricity cursing into his brain as he tried to breathe, and then all he could do was slump forward and hold on to the edges of the table, riding the wave of pleasure that was washing through him from that blazing point deep within him.   
Sherlock could see his slave slowly loosing himself and he leaned down once more, pulling John back up by his collar, arching his donor’s back and turning his head so he could once more bite into the jugular next to Watsons throat, allowing the hot blood to spurt into his mouth as he started to pull out and fuck back harshly, in a punishing rhythm, tasting the sweet explosion of the orgasm that build and finally released from John’s shivering body. 

John pulled his legs up as he was folded over the desk, spreading them as far as he could as Sherlock pushed deep into him, and then he came with a scream, without touching himself, his sphincter pulsing around Sherlock’s flesh who continued to pound in and out, in and out, as he released hold on the neck and drank his way through his slave’s orgasm, tasting the sensations in his donors blood, fucking him through it.

“OH MY GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDD….”

John scrabbled, looking for something to hang on to, pressing his forehead into the wood beneath him as his cock jerked under the table, shooting cum all over the carpet.  
The orgasm was more intense and lasted longer than anything he had ever experienced before, and he felt like his soul escaped him through his cum and the blood that was drawn from him in a greedy frenzy.  
Finally there was nothing left, neither cum nor energy, and Sherlock pulled his lips back from his slippery skin, curling his tongue to close the wounds.

The vampire straightened himself once more, placing both hands on the hips of his slave and thrust deep into exhausted body beneath him.   
Almost too sensitive now, John whined at the push and pull that rocked him back and forth, straining slightly to get away from the strong sensation that was still pleasurable, but almost too much so.   
Sherlock just gripped him tighter, his strokes speeding up; harshly slamming John’s hip against the table again and again, ignoring the low moans of distress beneath him. 

Sherlock was high from his donor’s blood, the orgasm still sweet on his lips, and with a swift motion he pulled out and flipped Watson onto his back.  
John’s head lolled like a doll as he felt himself being pulled to the edge of the table, his legs positioned on Sherlock’s shoulder as the vampire aligned himself once more.   
John could see that Sherlock’s eyes were on his own cock as he held it at the base, guiding himself back into the open, pliant flesh, and thrust in once more, sinking down all the way to the root. John was almost folded in two as Sherlock’s hips stilled against his ass, a low growl rumbling at the base of his throat, and then Sherlock placed his hand behind John’s neck, pulling him closer, forcing him to look into the pale, watery eyes of his master. 

“Look at me John.” The voice, dark, deep, sex was low and dripping, like honey, and John could not keep himself from following its command. 

Slowly Sherlock pulled back, his cock dragging along before he roughly fucked back in, his eyes glazing over in lust as he rocked in and out, constantly pulling his slave closer to himself, fucking deep. With a growl Sherlock continued to pump, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of John’s hips, bruising, and then he shot forward and sunk his teeth once more into the slave’s body, just above his right nipple, suckling hard while pounding away. 

John groaned, struggling slightly as he dug his hands into the errand brown curls, silky under his fingers. The pleasure spiked again after the bite, but John felt like his body was no more his own, like it was disconnected from him, like he was floating above his own body that the vampire was pounding into, fucking roughly while growling under his breath, his teeth stained with John’s blood, eyes ripped wide as he stared at his slave, marking him, possessing him…..

And John felt like he saw Sherlock’s face change in front of his eyes, slowly melting into something that looked less human, and cold sweat broke out on his body as he whimpered in fear, cold blue eyes upon him as Sherlock fucked in and out, in and out, _slap, slap, slap_ , swirling hips, folding John deeper, tighter, fucking harder, pulling him closer onto his own cock, and then the vampire came with a shout, leaning his head back as his hips spasmed into his slave, and he drove down onto John once more, biting him, drinking his way through his own orgasm, biting hard, deep, causing pain, making his slave scream once more, fucking harder, faster…..

John felt bile rise in his throat and he tried to get away from the monster that was above and in him, burning him from the inside out, and he screamed, trying to get away, trying to flee from the nightmare but he was pinned down, held in place by hands and then a palm folded over his open mouth as he continued to scream, turning into shrieks and finally panic overtook him as he was still fucked, _SLAP, SLAP, SLAP_ from skin hitting skin loud in his ears, and then he forgot how to breathe, stars flashing in front his eyes….

Everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and I would like to thank all of you for your awesome comments!  
> THANK YOU!  
> Next chapter will be from Sherlock’s POV.   
> By request.   
> Also cause it makes sense!


	8. Mistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another plotty chapter...  
> Now, Sherlock will be playing a violin piece a little into the chapter, and I think there is a point where you should really listen to it to know what mood he and Irene are in. I will mark it in the fic and suggest you let it play while continue reading. Just think only violin.   
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnWNVW2czNA
> 
> There are some words you might not know that are explained at the end.
> 
>  
> 
> x

At first Sherlock did not notice that something was wrong.   
He continued to fuck into his new slave’s body, high on sex and the sweet, sweet blood of his new donor that was so different than anything he had tasted before, so complex and so full life, so different and _interesting_.

Sherlock liked interesting.   
He was bored too often not to be attracted to it. 

Of course he felt when Watson started to tense, clenching around him and started to whine, but he had been lost in his own pleasure.  
He had already tasted his donor without pain tainting his system and stored the information away, and he honestly had not cared anymore about hurting his slave.   
But then, when Watson had started to scream, just as Sherlock had been cumming, feeding greedily in big gulps, the blood had turned spicy with panic and bitter with fear, not unpleasant, just a very harsh contrast to the earlier sweetness. 

He had looked up and saw the large eyes of the donor, pupils huge mirroring the unlimited terror within them. 

And then Watson’s blood had turned sour. 

Sour was never good.

Rotten things were sour.   
Dead things were sour.   
Hopeless things were sour. 

Sour was not good at all. 

Watson lost all the tension in his body, slumping down.

Fuck. 

 

Sherlock had stilled, breathing heavy as his cock pumped out the last of his ejaculate into the man’s body, removing his hand from the mouth. He leaned forward, buried deep within his slave, nuzzling the neck, feeling for the pulse with his tongue.   
It was eradicate, low and faint, but it was still there. 

Sherlock pulled out and walked to the kitchen where he took a tissue to clean himself from the slick of come and lube combined on his cock, and tugged himself back into his expensive trousers.   
His mind was racing.   
He picked up his phone, hesitated for a moment before he went through his contact list, choosing the entry for _Mistress_ , pushing the dial button.

 

It rang 5 times before she picked up. 

 

‘Sherlock.” It was almost a purr. “Well, I have not heard from you in a while, sweetheart. What a wonderful surprise!”

“I need your help.”

“Of course you do, you hardly ever call otherwise. What can I do for you this time?”  
The voice was casual; though he could hear the smile in it.   
She loved when he asked her for help.   
She knew how much Sherlock hated owing her. 

He took a deep breath: “I have a new donor. He collapsed. It looks very much like either an overdose or allergic reaction to my saliva, I am guessing too much protein delectatio*, but I will have to see.”  
His eyes glanced over to John’s body, still stretched out on the desk  
“I need one litre of Lactated Ringer’s or Hartmann’s solution ASAP.”

There was a moment of silence before the voice answered him, clearly amused:  
“Well, Sherlock, you know that you can purchase those things online and get them delivered. I can call the hotline for you….”

“God dammit Irene!” Sherlock hissed. “You know exactly that Mycroft is keeping a very close tab on me, and he or his henchmen would arrive with or even before the delivery, and then with a very high likelihood take away the donor. Not going to happen.   
Now get one of your slaves to bring it by in an unmarked box.”

There was a low giggle on the other side of the line.  
”Ah, but Sherlock dear, he would know about that as well, his eyes and ears are everywhere.”

“Irene” Sherlock’s voice was dangerously low. “Make it look like a present. We all know that I have not had a donor in more than 4 decades. And as I can’t ever stop you of you snooping in my private affairs, he won’t be suspicious of you sending me a gift. Even if that does not work, it buys me time. My donor, on the other hand, is hardly breathing.”

“Sure, Sherlock, as you wish. Did I mention you owe me one?” She was laughing quietly; clearly happy with the game they were playing. “I am sending a slave; she is on her way now.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, massaging his temples. “Of course, Mistress. I am grateful.”

“Well, I want to see your new plaything. I think you own me a tasting. Maybe even a fuck.   
I do so very much miss having you around.   
I will be in tomorrow, around 3 pm. I will bring a snack.”

With that, Irene Adler hung up. 

Sherlock put down the phone and waited for the slave to arrive. 

 

(Song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnWNVW2czNA ) – start at 0:15 sec. 

 

By the time Irene arrived, Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, playing the violin, the sound of it carrying down the stairs as she made her way up.   
2 slaves followed her silently, one male and one female, both dressed in simple black pants and black shirts, nothing fancy. They wore slender gold collars around their necks, small O-rings in the front. Irene did not wait to see if they were still behind her as she pushed the door open without a knock. 

Sherlock did not turn towards her, but continued playing, a wonderful piece that brought back memories, from their time in Budapest in 1935, feeding together on suicidal men and women as the song was played up and down bars, again and again.   
Irene leaned against the door, closing her eyes as the music washed over her.   
She remembered.  
Her and Sherlock. They had ruled the world. Taken what they wanted. Feasted and fucked together…..

Sentiment.

It was surprising how it still affected her, even after all this time.   
Sherlock had told her, a very long time ago, that it would be her downfall one day.   
He was probably right. 

He had closed his eyes as the bow slid gracefully over the strings, the warm chestnut of the Stradivari gleaming in the in falling sunrays. 

 

When the last note had faded, neither of them moved.

Then Sherlock stood slowly, placing the violin onto a cushion. 

He walked towards her, leaning in for a chaste kiss, pressing his lips on her.   
She allowed it.  
“Mistress.” He bowed his head, eyes sparkling. “Thank you for the slave.”

“Of course, Sherlock.” Irene raised her hand and she slid fingers over his face, caressing his cheeks. “Anything for my favourite child.”

She gave him a light slap with her open hand, hard enough for him to rock his head to the side from the impact.   
“I have not heard from you in about 9 years! You are such a bad boy, Sherlock!”

The taller vampire smirked, rubbing his cheek. 

“I have been busy. With the Uprising and then the Revolution.   
You may have heard about it. It was in the news.   
Mycroft turned me into a blood-hound. I could keep myself out of the parliament, no matter how much he pushed there was no way I was going to go in _politics_ , but I had to offer my help with the donor database.”

Irene smiled sweetly. “Ah yes, the Sherlockian nose. I always loved how you could pick a donor in a huge crowd just with your sense of smell. Such a useful and rare talent. Of course Mycroft would get you to use it for his advantage.”

She leaned in, nuzzling at his neck, letting her tongue slowly trail along his Adam’s apple.   
“God, how I have missed this.”

“Mmmmmm.” Sherlock hummed in agreement, then pulled back. 

He clearly was not her toy anymore.   
Her little boy, all grown up.   
It almost made her sad. 

She smiled as she ruffled the silky curls of his, then walked over to the large sofa and sat down gracefully.   
“So, where is this new slave of yours? I am ever so intrigued what kind of a human has made you decide to own one again.”

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. 

“He is in bed upstairs. Your slave is watching him, makes sure that he is not showing any other signs of an overdose. He has bettered since last night, but it took almost the whole bag to get him stabilized. “

Irene leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Pray, do tell what happened Sherlock. Overdosing someone on your saliva is such a beginner’s mistake; I can’t believe it happened to you! I am almost ashamed to think I have taught you all you know, and then something like this would happen.”

Sherlock growled. “I may not have had a donor in a while, but I am not stupid. I did drink a lot but not more than he could handle. I should have noted that his reaction to the protein delectiato was much stronger than what I had experienced in donors before, but then I did not us more than usual. Anyway, I kept adding some with every bite, slowly pushing his high up, and then he he started to panic, over-sensitize, shallow breaths, too fast heartbeat, cold sweat. Clearly overdose.”

“Oh….a reactive one? That should be fun! And you tried just delectiato , only simple pleasure, no mixture?” Her eyes wandered up and down Sherlock’s lean frame, smiling seductively. 

“I already know what his pain tastes like, that’s how I found him. Very rich. I want to start with clean pallets before I work myself down to mixtures. I know Pain now. Pleasure. We can go from there.”

“Well, as you owe me a dinner, I think I want to share one of those sessions with you.  
She saw how Sherlock stiffened and laughed. “Only when he recovered, of course. Still so very protective of what is yours?” Sherlock did not reply. Irene leaned forward, placing a hand his arm, pulling him towards the sofa. 

“Come Sherlock, it will be like old times, and I swear I won’t steal him! We will drink together, fuck together… just like Budapest, Sherlock. Like Paris. Like Rome. And I swear I will heed your boundaries.”  
Sherlock had not moved, staring straight ahead.   
Irene shifted, giving a small wave to her slaves.   
“Ah, my dear, you are surprisingly predictable. But as a sign of my good faith, I brought something special for you, my own new donor. I believe you will enjoy her.”

She turned, her voice clear and sharp as she looked at the young redhead standing at the door.   
“Amelia. Come here.”

The young slave, maybe 17 years of age looked horrified, but she slowly made her way over to the sofa where Irene and Sherlock were sitting. 

Irene turned to Sherlock, studying his face as she took his hand into hers.   
“She is a virgin, you know, wonderful subtle undertones, and she does have such fantastic spicy bursts when she is afraid. Oh, but her pain… Simply delicious. A mixture between red berries and raw meat, with a hint of chillies and dark, bitter chocolate. Simply divine. Too bad she is not a masochist.”

She smiled at the shaking girl who threw a glance at Sherlock, and then slowly sunk to her knees. 

“Please do excuse her, she is still not fully trained, I have only had her for 3 weeks.  
But she is special enough for me to bring her tonight, I believe you will enjoy her flavour as much as I do.” Her hand reached out for the girl, caressing the red long tresses.  
“There, there sweetheart, you are doing so well. This is my sweet child Sherlock, a connoisseur, and he is going to feed from you. Now stand, then remove your trousers, bend over in a 90 degree angle facing Sherlock, your hands on his shoulders. “

The girl bit her lip, glancing over at Sherlock once more, a single tear running down from her large, green eyes before she slowly stood, opening the buttons to her pants, following the instructions she had received. 

Sherlock smiled at her, relishing the way she shivered, the sharp smell of her fear already mouth-watering. He was looking forward to the tasting.   
Irene had been very good picking out donors in the past, and he anticipated the treat. Red-heads donors were rare, and virgins could indeed taste very special. He could not remember the last time he had that mixture. And a pain-donor. Delicious. _Interesting._

When the girl had placed her trembling hands on his shoulders, he waited for her to stand still before he sharply pulled her in close towards his face. His hand was steady on the back of her neck, pressing his mouth under her chin, smelling the warmth, licking over the hot skin, feeling the fast heartbeat under his tongue.  
Irene had stood as well, gesturing to the male slave that still stood at the door.

“Dominic, my riding crop.”

“Yes, mistress.”   
The slave reacted without hesitation, opening a small black bag he had been carrying, pulling a black leather, medium-length riding crop from inside and sank to his knees before handing it to Irene. 

It would sting but not break the skin.   
It was a good choice for the child. 

Irene took the whip, letting it run through her slender fingers before she leaned in over the girl, fingers running over her pale white ass, caressing it.   
“There now, I want you to brace yourself. It will not do to fall, do you understand? You will not disappoint me.”

“Yes Mistress.” The girl’s teeth were chattering slightly, as she tried to remain still.

Her smell of fear intensified, and Sherlock groaned as he pushed his nose closer into that dip of her neck, where he could feel her heart beat against his mouth. 

Irene stepped up and pulled at the slave’s hips, lengthening her back to have the small heart shaped ass stick out further than it did before. She gave small kicks against the ankles of the girl to broaden her stance.   
“It will be easier if you bend your knees slightly”.  
There was an anxious sob and then another “Yes Mistress” before Irene lifted her riding crop, giving Sherlock a small nod before letting it whistle through the air. The moment she gave him the signal, he bit hard into the neck of the young girl, tasting the heady mixture of spicy flavour, exploding on his tongue when the riding crop hit its mark. 

No soothing of pain.  
Not this time.

The girl screamed in agony, her knees giving way slightly, fingers digging into Sherlock’s flesh as she tried to stabilize herself, fighting not to let go, not to fall to her knees, taking the steady beating as Sherlock sucked greedily, swallowing her in large gulps. 

His eyes never left Irene’s as she smiled at him tenderly, raising the crop again and again, and Sherlock could feel his cock rise at the sound of the sobbing girl, the taste of her virgin blood and the smouldering look of sex from the Mistress. 

He sucked hard once more before he disconnected, tongue running over his blood-stained lips.  
“You are right, her pain is extraordinary. Thank you very much for sharing.”  
He leaned back, breathing in and out a couple of times, shifting slightly to relieve the awkward pressure of his cock in his pants.   
“Would you like to have her now?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

She playfully slapped the red ass of the girl, pressing a light kiss onto the top of her coppery head.   
“So beautiful” she murmured, “You may kneel for me now.”  
The girl fell to her knees, huddling between Sherlock’s thighs while she continued to sob quietly, and Irene was just about to pass Sherlock her riding crop when they heard the stairs creak. 

Both vampires turned at the sound.

John was standing halfway down the stairs, white as a sheet, a sheer glace of sweat covering his face. “What happened, someone was screaming, is everything….?”

He froze in mid-sentence, his eyes latching on the scene before him.   
Sherlock, sitting on the couch, an obvious erection denting his trousers, a beautiful woman in a tight black dress holding a riding crop, fangs flashing at him as she smiled, and a girl kneeling on the floor between them, sobbing quietly. 

“And that, my dear, would be my new donor.” Sherlock sighed. “Did I mention he thinks he is a hero?”

Irene let her eyes glide up and down the half-naked man in front of her.   
John had pulled on a pair of pants to cover his modesty, but nothing else.   
He now wished he had something to hide behind. He was, after all, not 20 anymore, and in general had never been too comfortable with his own nudity. Especially in a room with 2 vampire of which one was clearly horny, with a half-naked woman kneeling between his legs.   
The same vampire he remembered fucking him last night. 

No, John had never wished for clothes as much as he did now. 

Irene’s slave, who had been watching over John, took the moment to pad down the stairs behind him, looking distressed, eyes heavy from sleep.   
“I am so sorry Mistress, I was just….”  
“Silence, I will punish you later.” The command was sharp, and the girl went quiet instantly. 

John shifted on his feet, as a faint headache started in the back of his head, caused by a lack of fluid and the stress he had been through, and he held himself not to just turn and walk up the stairs once more.  
He wavered, then caught the angry eyes of his vampire upon him.  
Sherlock. 

“Ah… right, I am sorry…Master, yes….I did not…”

“Clearly.” Sherlock’s voice was dry. “Come here, Watson, Irene wants to take a look at you.”

It was obvious now that the adrenalin was wearing off that John was not well, but he nodded and walked stiffly down the rest of the stairs and towards the standing woman. He stopped in front of her, his eyes focused on the ground.

Irene smiled softly at Sherlock, then slowly walked around his new slave, one hand running along his goose-pimpled skin while the other was slapping the riding crop rhythmically against her thigh.   
When she had circled him once she took his chin into her hand and forced his head back.

“What is your name, love?”

John looked at Sherlock for a moment. He knew that he was not to talk to other vampires, but in this case Holmes clearly was ok with it.

“John Watson.”  
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, gripping faster. ‘Well, John Watson, that will be Mistress to you, do you understand?”

He gasped at the pain of her iron grip: “Yes, Mistress! I am sorry.”

She nodded slowly, eyes still studying him. Then she leaned in forward, holding him tight, pressing her nose against John’s clavical, breathing deeply.

She stayed there for about 10 seconds, just sucking in his aroma, John horrified she would bite him, shaking at the idea, but not moving.

When Irene finally leaned back her eyes were closed and she licked her lip.

“Dear God Sherlock, he does smell delicious. Too bad I can’t try him now, but you do have to set up a tasting, I insist. “She opened her eyes and turned to Sherlock, who was clearly not happy with the prospect.   
“I know you never liked sharing your personal slaves, but honey you do owe me this one. Let’s allow him to two weeks or so, then I am going to try him. No discussion, Sherlock. “

She released her iron grip on John’s chin, and he could feel it tingling as blood rushed into it once more. He was pretty sure it would bruise.  
“Kneel, slave.” Her voice was sharp and authoritative, and John sank to his knees almost automatically. 

“Mmmm.” Irene made an appreciated sound. “He will train nicely. If you ever need a hand, just let me know, I think I would enjoy this one.”

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t need him broken; I just want him to do what I tell him to.”

Irene shrugged. “Sometimes they are one and the same, Sherlock. “

She smiled and rubbed her hands.

“Now, where were we? Ah yes, Amelia! Come sweetheart, same position as earlier. The Mistress is still hungry. ”  
She sat down gracefully on the sofa, crossing her legs, offering Sherlock the riding crop she was still holding. The girl rose silently and walked over, bending as instructed. 

John, sitting close behind her, lowered his eyes embarrassed as the naked ass of the beautiful girl rose high, already criss-crossed with red marks.  
It was closer than any ass he had seen for a long time. 

Irene leaned in for a long, sensual kiss, soothing the girl that once more had started to shake.   
“There, there, my love, I will drink and then I will get you the pleasure you deserve, yes? Just hold on for me a little longer, you are such a brave girl.”

Sherlock let his fingers run over the smooth leather of the riding crop, starting at John, as if he had forgotten that Irene was even there. 

Irene gave him an amused look, then continued to kiss her young slave, fingers trailing along her shirt and disappearing below it, clearly to play with nipples underneath.   
The girl let out a moan, and Irene hissed: “Sherlock!”

The vampire tore his gaze away from his donor and stood. 

He walked behind the girl, eyes seeking out Irene’s, watching as her mouth slowly sucked her way down the girl’s neck and gave her a small nod. Irene bit into the soft white flesh of the redhead, and two seconds later the crop hit the girl’s already streaked backside with a loud slap.   
It was beautifully coordinated. 

Amelia was rocked forward at the hard hit, and she cried out once more as the hard leather connected with her flesh, turning it bright red.   
Irene held her closer as Sherlock raised the whip once more. 

“STOP!”

Sherlock froze midway, the crop high in the air. 

John. 

“Stop, Sherlock, she is in pain, you can’t…you have to….”  
John Watson had jumped to his feet, face red, realizing with instant clarity that he had just screamed at two vampires to stop drinking from their human slave.   
The boy kneeling at the door stared at him with an open mouth, and Irene had stopped suckling at the wound.   
There was no sound in the room, all eyes on John. 

Sherlock slowly lowered the riding crop, his body now fully turned towards his slave.   
His eyes blazed in fury. 

Irene started to laugh softly.  
“Well, say what you might Sherlock, but he does remind me of you when you were a boy. You never followed any rules and I had to punish you so very often.”  
She stood, pushing her slave back. “Stand Amelia, I believe we are going to leave now and I will finish my supper at a later point in time. Sherlock and John Watson need to talk.”

She flashed a smile at the tall vampire, who was still frozen, staring at his new slave.  
“Unless, of course, you want me to stay and help you train that naughty little slave of yours….”

“NO” The hiss was loud and angry, then Sherlock drove his hands through his errand curls, eyes never leaving John. “No, thank you, but I can handle this. John, on your knees. Now.”   
His voice was dangerously low. 

John did not even think, knees just giving way.   
He was so fucking screwed….

Irene stood, giving Sherlock a long, lingering kiss on the lips. 

“Dominic will be in touch with you regarding our dinner appointment. I did bring some gifts, call it a slave-Starter-kit if you must, just in case Mycroft drops by and asks what I was doing here.   
Dominic will leave it in the hallway downstairs. There is some more saline solution, food and some clothes. Have a look when you have the time. “

Sherlock nodded, clearly distracted.  
“Thank you, Mistress.

“And don’t be too harsh on him Sherlock, he is new after all. Then again , it might do him some good. Anyway, I will leave you two to it. Goodbye John.”  
Irene ruffled his hair with one of her hands. “Now, be good for Sherlock, or he will send you to me, and you really don’t want that.”

She turned, and the three slaves followed her silently as she opened the door, leaving John with Sherlock, the slave kneeling, the master standing. 

There was silence for several minutes as the two men stared at each other.   
Finally John lowered his gaze. 

God, he was so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protein delectiato = Protein contained in saliva of vampires to produce pleasure. Can be synthesised at will. There are many different protein types, other may be listed at a later point in time. 
> 
> Lactated Ringer’s solution: is a solution that is isotonic with blood and intended for intravenous administration. It includes salines and dextrones. In Britain and Ireland, a very similar solution, called Hartmann’s solution is used instead. 
> 
> xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
> 
> Ok guys, I have school again as of tomorrow, so updates will be less frequent as I can't spend every day writing.....but no way I am abandoning it, cause, you know, hostage, plotbunnies, ideas in my head, Blah Blah....


	9. Sleep....

The silence continued, even after Irene was gone.  
John could hear Sherlock breathing, hard, angry bursts of air that made him cringe.  
His mind raced, wondering what would be in store for him now. 

From Sherlock’s earlier discussion with Mycroft he knew that his vampire had killed his donors before.  
It was only his second day in this house.  
Christ.

Also, John had been working in a hospital long enough to see the victims of vampire abuse.  
They could be such mundane things like extreme blood loss, but with their extreme strength vampires often broke their human toys beyond recognition, whipping them, ripping large flesh wounds, breaking every bone in their body.  
Sometimes John would only be able to declare them dead.

Vampires, in his mind, were sadistic motherfuckers, and he had just angered one. 

John lifted his head once more, not able to stand the silence, scanning Sherlock’s face for emotion. 

 

Sherlock stared back at his slave, the anger curling through him like a lazy snake.  
His slave returned his gaze, eyes fearful, but otherwise the man held himself straight, hands on his knees, not turning away his face from the looks that his master gave him.

Something like admiration cursed through Sherlock.

Running his fingers through his errand curls once more, he knew what punishment he would bestow. But with the overdose of the previous night he was not sure how well his donor would take it.  
He was still weak.  
And the human interested him enough to keep him around a little longer.

“Watson.” His voice was calm, and he relished the small flinch from his slave.  
“Mistress Irene left gifts, go downstairs to collect them. Store the perishables in the fridge. I expect you back here when you are done. We will then discuss your punishment.”

John blinked a couple of times, and then he slowly got to his feet.  
His eyes wandered down his own body, still only in his pants, wondering if he was allowed to put on some clothes first, but decided against it.  
There was no way he wanted to anger Sherlock any more than he already was.

He made his way down the stairs quickly, gathering as many bags as he could carry into his hands.  
He realized he would have to make two trips.

On his way back up, John started to feel dizzy, his head spinning, cold shivers running down his body. He had to stop, leaning against the wall as he felt numb all of the sudden, sounds coming from far away, breaking into cold sweat. He managed to move once more, feeling the slickness of the sweat on his back and forehead, walking along the wall to keep himself upright, and then there was bile rising in his throat. 

He dropped the bags and stumbled the rest of the way to the kitchen, emptying the contents of his stomach into the sink. He heaved for a long time while his legs gave way, stars dancing behind his eyes.  
He could hear Sherlock walk in behind him, and he slowly turned on the water to wash away his vomit, splashing the cold water into his face.  
His whole body was shivering and he could smell the sweat drying on his skin.

“Watson.”

John turned slowly, stabilizing himself on the counter. He tried to stand straight, but his legs would not carry his weight, wobbling under him. 

Sherlock stared at him and then took a deep sigh.  
“Watson, you are excused for the rest of the day. I would suggest you rest. Your punishment is postponed until I see you fit enough to withstand it.”

John nodded, the blood in his ears rushing.  
He made it to the couch, not even able to consider taken two flights of stairs to his bedroom, and blessedly passed out. 

Sherlock stood for a long while, staring at the man’s shallow breathing before he took off his waist coat and laid it over John Watson’s body.

 

Sherlock settled down in his own armchair, watching his donor sleep for a while, his mind racing.  
John’s behaviour had been clearly out of order, denying his guest, his own _Maker_ the peace to feed, and he had to be punished accordingly.  
He knew he would use the cane on him, a harsh but very effective instrument, while his mind was trying to make out how much Watson would be able to withstand.  
He had, in anger, once given a slave 100 strokes, and he had died of shock within a couple of hours.  
Also, it was only his first offense….  
Sherlock shifted in his seat, his mind in turmoil.  
This human was one of the most interesting tastes he had come across in centuries, and it would be a pity to lose him so very quickly. 

On the other hand the vampire knew that he did not have the patience to break in a new slave.  
He expected humans to know that they were the inferior race, born to serve.  
He had, after all, also known his place when Irene had claimed him.  
It was pure survival instinct, which John seemed to be lacking. 

Sherlock twitched some more, then went to retrieve his smart phone. 

He deleted all the emails his brother had left without reading them.  
Mycroft would call if there was an emergency. And he was not in the mood to answer requests for him to join the government, a special force team or whatever else he had come up with.  
Sherlock thought his blood brother was a pain in the arse, and he tried to stay away from him as much as he could. 

There was nothing else of interest.  
Sherlock took a deep sigh and leaned back against his armchair.  
Normal life was so pathetically boring.

 

He gave John time to recover…..

The donor had slept for 16 hours in a row, waking slowly and climbing of the couch with stiff limbs, not aware where he was until he spotted Sherlock sitting at a microscope at the kitchen.  
From the corner of his eye Sherlock could see the human stiffen in alarm, and he could almost hear him think: ‘Did he see me? Should I lie back down and pretend to sleep? What should I do?’

Then the blond man finally straightened his shoulders and slowly made his way up to the bathroom, where Sherlock could hear the shower turn on minutes later. 

Sherlock had not fed since the little session with Irene, but to be honest was used to being hungry and believed it made his mind sharper. He knew from experience that it took 5-7 days for him to be distracted by his need to feed, and he was nowhere close to that time.

Also, John probably still needed a while before he could feed from him again. 

When the human came back down the stairs, he was once again clothed in the white outfit he had received at the holding pen he had been kept.  
It smelled slightly of old sweat and fear.

 

“There is more downstairs.” Sherlock’s voice was loud and made Watson jump.

The doctor waited for a moment, looking around, before carefully straightening himself and answering: “Sorry, what?”  
Sherlock looked up from his work, his eyes boring into his slaves: “Clothes. There are fresh clothes in the bags that were delivered, they are still downstairs.”

John hesitated for a moment, then he nodded his head, and made down the stairs.  
He felt much better than he had before, but he was ravenously hungry.  
Down the stairs he noted the rest of the bags that the …Mistress had delivered days before, and he picked them up and slowly made his way up the stairs. 

He put them on the couch table, and opened them.

There were two pairs of Jeans, three slightly too large sweaters, white T-shirts, some pants and socks. They did not fit but were fresh, and John was happy he could change into something different from what he was wearing now. 

Sherlock continued working on his experiment, even though he was slightly distracted.  
He had managed to take some blood from his donor while he was asleep and analysed it under the microscope, adding different concentrations of his saliva to the cells, watching them react and eventually die when the amount proved to be too much.  
It was fascinating to see how quickly the red blood cells imploded when a certain amount of his protein hit them, and he knew he would have to keep himself in check in the future.  
The reaction was out of range that he had seen in a very long while.  
It was special.  
Special was good…..

He changed the slides patiently, after he dribbled amounts of his own saliva to the blood, covering it with a smaller plate of glass, taking down the smallest changes he could see.  
It was fascinating really, and he was almost surprised at the new challenge that was within his own house.

 

Then his phone rang. 

Sherlock picked it up slowly, as it was lying beside him already.  
He glanced at the screen. 

It was Lestrade. 

Sherlock had not spoken to Lestrade in days, no…weeks, and Sherlock had been restless the last couple of days and felt almost glad the detective called.

Almost. 

Lestrade was part of the vampire police force, almost as old as Sherlock at around 450 years, being smart, quick and clever, and led the local London Police force with an iron fist.  
Lestrade and Sherlock had fought viscously when they first met, especially as Sherlock as was blatantly abusing his donors and did not care to hide it, but over the last centuries they had reluctantly started to trust each other. 

For both had something the other wanted.  
Sherlock’s intellect solving crimes.  
Lestrade’s access to said crimes.

Mycroft has asked him many times to join the force for them, but his younger blood brother told him that ‘normal’ crimes were boring.  
So they called him for ones no one else could solve. 

And now Lestrade was calling. 

Sherlock allowed his stomach to flutter and waited.

He let the phone ring.  
Three times.  
Four times.  
Then he picked up.

“What?”

The voice on the other side was slightly annoyed, but mostly sounded tired.  
 _In need of blood then_ , Sherlock thought. 

“Sherlock? I need you for a murder.”

Sherlock leaned back, letting the satisfaction wash through him.  
Finally.  
Something to stress his brain.  
A murder.  
He had been caught up in sniffing up donors like a blood hound that he had been bored to tears.

“What is it?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. Clearly lack of blood.  
“Vampire. Eric van der Houten is dead. One of his donors has also been killed, the rest of his harem is alive. We can’t figure out how they did it, especially as it seems they have been murdered days ago during the revolution.”

Sherlock grinned.  
“Where?”

Lestrade sounded relieved.  
“I will text you the exact address. How long will you be?”

Sherlock looked around.  
“I can leave within 10 min. And Lestrade…have a drink before I arrive. You are anxious over the phone. I can’t work like that.”

There was a growl from the other side, then the line went dead. 

Sherlock smiled, relaxed back into his seat. 

“JOHN!” his call was loud, and he was sure his donor would be able to hear it, even in the bathroom.  
There was a slight hesitation, and then a low response:  
“Yes?”  
“Get dressed and ready, we are going out. You have 5 minutes.”


	10. Ming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John!Angst in this chapter.   
> Sorry for the delay, this chapter was killing me!   
> The next one will be up sooner.

John was standing in the bathroom, starring at the mirror, his fingers wandering over the large bronze collar that marked him visibly, wondering what his punishment would be.   
He had seriously considered hiding out for a split second when he heard Sherlock calling, knowing how childish it was, panic rolling over him. 

But things just and simply did not work that way. 

Earlier he had showered, standing in the bathtub for a long while, letting the hot water run down his back, wincing when he felt the slight pain between his ass cheeks.   
John had pondered over the sex and his own reactions to the feeding, shivering when he remembered stripping without self-consciousness and then masturbating in front of the fully clothed vampire. He had moaned like a wanton whore that would have probably made a porn star blush, and bent over that table without a second thought.   
And he remembered every second of it.  
Turning him into something he was not.   
John was immensely disturbed by the power that Sherlock has had over him.  
It was like Sherlock had changed his personality just by biting him.   
Into someone he did not like or want to identify with.   
And even scarier was that the orgasm he had with the vampire was probably the best he ever had. 

It upset John even more than the punishment he knew was still outstanding. 

 

Then Sherlock had called for him, and a pang of cold panic fisted him in the stomach.   
“5 minutes.”  
John took a deep breath. _You can do this._  
“Sorry, what?”   
“5 minutes to get ready. We are going out. Crime scene. There is a human victim. You are a doctor. I may need your input.”

…Crime scene?

John looked down on himself, wearing the slightly too large but clean clothes that Irene had provided him with. There was nothing left to do, so he made his way down the stairs where Sherlock was already pulling on the long black coat he had first met him in. 

Right. 

Going out.   
Probably no punishment then.  
Not yet.   
And no strange sex.   
Ok.  
He could probably handle that. 

John was hungry and remembered that he had not eaten in a while, so he quickly went to look through the grocery bags he had left on the floor before he fell asleep. There was bread and jam as well as some bananas, and he took them to the kitchen to prepare some sandwiches.   
He made three of them and wrapped them in a clean-looking kitchen towel for the lack of cellophane or Tupper ware and added the banana and a bottle of water into one of the now empty grocery bags. 

Sherlock already stood by the door, staring at John.  
“Come on, let’s go. I have called a cab, it should be here any minute now.”  
John gave a jolt grabbed the bag and put on his shoes, the same ones he had worn when he had left the hospital to join the Revolution that day.

They were smudged with black soot and small droplets of blood.  
He could not help but stare at them.   
Strange, how fast things could change in one’s life.

Free one day.  
Bound-servant the next. 

Sherlock was almost dancing on his feet.   
If John had not known any better, he would have thought that the vampire was _excited_.

“I don’t have a jacket.” John’s voice was low.   
It was August, but the nights could be rather cold.   
Sherlock had already opened the door and slipped out, half way down the stairs.  
“Your clothes have been delivered; they are in the brown box next to the entrance. Take your jacket and come. Now HURRY, Watson.”

 

The cab ride took about 20 min through a London that was so very different than what John had grown up with. It reminded him of the riots when the vampires had first revealed themselves, the destroyed store-fronts, burning cars, soot everywhere. 

John had sat next to Sherlock, careful not to touch the vampire as he slowly chewed on his sandwich, his stomach growling loudly after the long fast.

Sherlock sat quietly.   
He could sense how his slave next to him had started to tense once they had settled down, probably started to _think_ , and soon the biting aroma of supressed fear and anxiety hit his nostrils.   
The vampire let out an exaggerated sigh, and the smell intensified.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
Humans were so very predictable. 

He knew that they still had at least 10 min to their destination, so he turned towards John. His bound-servant tried to ignore him, but his shoulders slouched forward ever so slightly, and he held himself rigid next to his master. 

“Ask.” Sherlock’s voice was low and slightly impatient.  
John blinked and turned towards the vampire.

“Sorry, what?”

“You have questions. We still have a ways to go. Ask now. Your worrying is annoying and, may I say, distracting.”  
He watched as his slave leaned back, clearly surprised by the offer. He could almost see John’s mind racing.  
“I guess…where are we going? …………………….…Sir?”   
An afterthought.   
But Watson had not forgotten. Good.

Sherlock leaned back and rattled the explanation out.  
“I am consulting the police on murders they have troubles solving on their own, all of them idiots really, so they call me when something interesting comes up.   
I help out when necessary and when I have the time. The main focus of the force I am working with handles the murders of vampires or highly important figures, I have been working with them for roughly 350 years now.”

John’s mouth fell open. 

“350 …. Years… ….right.”   
He had briefly wondered how old Sherlock was, still the number seemed ludicrous.  
John did not know whether it was acceptable to ask the age of a vampire, so he decided to skip that bit for now.  
“So…you solve crimes? Like a detective? Sir?”

“Consulting detective, yes. I deduct things from looking at crimes scenes. You will help me with the human physiology, in case something comes up. We will try this once, and then I will decide if I will need you for these outings in the future.”

He turned towards John.   
“Anything else?”

John tensed, fisting his hands in his lap. Sherlock’s tone of voice was clearly impatient, and he did not want to push his luck.   
He had so many questions….  
But there was one thing that he knew was unavoidable, and it was more important than anything else at this point in time. 

“My punishment, Sir…”

Sherlock allowed one side of his mouth to curl up.   
Humans. Predictable.

“When we get back home. You are well enough now.”

John tensed even more, and once again the smell of slight panic wavered off the man.  
“How will you punish me?”  
No Sir this time.

Sherlock looked out the window.  
“Rattan cane, 25 strokes on your back and legs. It will not break your skin and won’t keep you from working. But it will hurt. And you will remember before speaking out of line once more.”

John looked down, fisting his hands into his lap. Anger spiced up the smell in the cab. 

They drove the rest of the way in silence. 

 

The cab stopped at a large mansion on the outskirts of London, surrounded by a carefully manicured garden. Sherlock paid the driver and walked with sure strides towards the entrance, waving a dismissive hand at the human police officers that approached him.  
He flashed his teeth at them and they evaded his gaze, stepping back. 

John had climbed out of the cab, painfully aware that his broad metal collar marked him clearly as a bond-servant ( _sex-slave_ ), he hated the feel and weight of it on his skin, but he hated even more having to face people with it.

To face the world. 

_Property of Sherlock Holmes_

He remembered how he himself had reacted to men and women wearing the collar in the past, suppressing the strong feelings of pity and shame (and disgust), wondering how the vampire treated them, if they were really fucked and abused as much as the rumours indicated.

And now he was the one….

 

Sherlock did not wait for him to follow, and for one ridiculous moment John wondered if he could just turn around and run off.   
What did the vampire say to him on his first day? _I have no problems keeping you tied and naked in a room until the day you die, to be fed on and fucked at my pleasure_.   
No. No. No.  
Not that.   
Not worth it.   
He would need a plan first. 

The police did not stop him as he followed Sherlock, seeing his collar, something clouding their eyes as they stepped back, reading the markings on it.  
The collar marked John as a bond-servant, and when Sherlock nodded towards them, they let John pass.

The tall vampire turned when John stepped up to him.  
“Ah, Watson, you made it. No need to kneel, we shall go to look at the body any moment now.”

He was standing next to a slightly smaller but more muscular vampire sporting short, peppered hair. He glanced at John for a moment, a grin curling up the corners of his mouth.  
“Well, Sherlock, I did hear that you had a new donor, but I did not want to believe it.”

Another dismissive wave of the hand. “Lestrade. I am here to help you with the case, I see no reason to waste our time with pleasantries. Watson is of no concern of yours. Where is the body?”

The vampire called Lestrade grinned.  
“Sure, it is just that you don’t normally bring your toys to work Sherlock.”

John tensed, but he could see something like anger flash in Sherlock Holmes eyes:  
“He is a doctor, has worked with human patients in the Vampire-Abuse Ward for some while. It is always good to have a new set of eyes, especially when they are trained in human physiology and sentiment. Also, I don’t NEED to explain myself to you…”

Lestrade’s grin never left his face, but he raised both his hands and stepped back.   
“Sure Sherlock, no worries. The body is upstairs in the bedroom. Come, I will show you.”

 

After that, everything seemed a bit like a blur to John.   
There were a large amount of police men and research team all over the mansion, of which many were vampires.

The crime scene was a massacre, and it looked like it would belong on the set of a horror movie.   
It was the bedroom of the murdered vampire, Eric van der Houten.   
John almost choked when he stepped into the room and saw the blood bath in front of him. He knew how much blood a human body could hold, and it seemed like it was all splattered over the walls around them.  
There was a restrained form on top of the bed, probably bound-servant judging by the collar.  
John could not tell if it was male or female from afar, the body mutilated beyond recognition. 

In the corner away from the bed, something human-like was pinned against the wall, crumbled and twisted.   
It was the first time John Watson had seen the corpse of an old vampire.

The body was clearly vampiric, dark grey, gnarled and twisted the way a mummy would be when dead for hundreds of years, his lips drawn back from his teeth, revealing its fangs.   
The body was naked, the dry, flaky skin falling off in large patches, fresh blood still slowly dripping from the large wound in his chest that held him in place.   
It was a bizarre sight. 

Sherlock let his eyes roam over the room before he stepped up to the body.   
He leaned in and took a long sniff. The he started to move around the corpse, fast, his form edging along the body in a fluent rhythm, tracing along limbs with his hands, lifting them with his gloved fingers, pulling the corpse forward to glance down it’s back. 

John held his breath watching the extremely fast movements of his vampire.  
The Sherlock stepped back.   
“Now to the slave. Come Watson, I would like to have your input on this one.”

John nodded silently and closed his nostrils to the thick coppery smell as he approached the bed. While he was used to blood, the amount of black-brown puddles and the extreme violence it must have taken to mutilate the tied-up bound-servant, were even hard for him to look at.   
He waited as Sherlock leaned onto the bed, performing the same fast-paced movements he had at the other corpse.   
The speed of a vampire could be horrifying. 

The he stopped, turning to Watson.   
“She is all yours.”  
John swallowed and stepped up.   
His eyes wandered over the body.   
The face and front of her chest and thighs had been cut so many times that the features would have to be determined by a skull scan and probably a team of forensic artists.   
John was very much aware of the two vampires standing behind him, waiting for him comment.  
So John Watson did what he always did in such a situation.   
He searched for the pulse.   
He always did.   
There was too much blood and too great of a damage on the body, but he had to be sure.

…..

 

….

 

Nope….

 

Dead.

Ok.

John took a deep breath, letting his gloved fingers run over the back of the head, then along the face over the torso. He hesitated for second, but he his fingers continued on to check between the legs, confirming that it was a female victim and that she recently had intercourse.  
Whether forced or not would have to be determined.   
But it was moot anyway, for the girl, a bound-servant judging by the collar, was constrained. Bound-servants were outside the law, when looking at violence and rape at the hands of their master.  
Only very big misconducts, like crippling bodily harm, mutilation or murder or your slave was punishable, but the penalties were not very severe.

John had seen enough. 

He turned, facing Sherlock. “Well, she is dead.”  
Lestrade barked out a laugh.   
“Well, at least he fits to you Sherlock. “  
Sherlock snarled. “Doctor, you just added 5 lashes to your punishment. Manners.”

John took a deep breath.  
“Sorry Sir. The woman has been dead for no more than 12-18 hours.   
Obviously she has been tortured extensively. I am not a coroner or a blood specialist, but the slashes to face, hands and chest indicate a weapon similar to a knife.   
She was stabbed at least 14 times in the face alone, the rest of the body is too bloody to determine the amount.   
There are puncture wounds in her neck, I suspect from a feeding. Whether it was forced or consensual would have to be determined.   
Also, she had intercourse. “

John stopped, staring defiantly at Sherlock.  
He did not know what the man wanted of him   
Clearly he had helped fill out and explain injuries in the past, but he was no expert on abuse cases, and had never tried to be.  
John Watson had always wanted to be a surgeon. 

Sherlock nodded. “Did she put up a fight?”

John felt himself flush angrily.   
“She was tied down and possibly raped. She could hardly move her arms let alone her legs. There are deep marks on her wrists and ankles, but if she was raped before she was murdered, she would have struggled and injured herself before. However her motion range was severely restricted due to the bondage. So no, I don’t think she was able to put up much of a fight. “

Sherlock nodded as if John had confirmed something.   
He turned to Lestrade. 

“Eric van der Houten was killed by one of his loan sharks.   
Made to look like a lover or human murdered him, horrible job at hiding the obvious, which is that it is meant as a warning for anyone else that may be owing a lot of money. I would think vampire with Asian ancestries, probably a syndicate.”

Lestrade looked dubious: “He comes from very old money Sherlock, I hardly think…”

Sherlock turned, eyes glistening. “Ah, I see.   
Look at his shoes downstairs. He normally has them custom made, he has for centuries, but downstairs you can see two newer pairs slightly worn, that are from a conventional store.   
Same with some of his clothing.   
So low on funds.   
Still he has a harem of several bound-servants, stays in this ridiculous place, the electric and heating bills must be immense. It is all about appearances. And then there is, of course, the gambling debt. “

“Gambling debt.” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, gambling debt, there are 2 schedules for horse races for the upcoming weeks on the table over there. Names are circled. But I am sure that the Revolution has upset the dates significantly.  
Also, there was a bingo-ticket on the table downstairs. His previous behaviour especially with his harem indicates addictive personality. So yes, gambling debt.  
You will find that the entry wound on van der Houten’s chest is too high and too clean for a normal human being to have wielded it to penetrate with such force.   
On the other hand the cuts on the body of the girl are placed very orderly, almost parallel to each other, indicating that someone was counting and placing them strategically. A crime of passion would likely have a more random distribution of stab wounds, also in this case the depth of the injuries diminish over time as adrenalin declines. Here you will find all wounds to be the same depth. Systematic. The vampire was killed first, thrown against the wall and pinned down by the 2 other guys…“

“Two other guys? Sherlock, I swear, if you are making this up…”

“Clearly he was pinned down, you will find his left wrist is shattered, I suspect hard grips. He had intercourse and feeding with his bound-servant just moments before he was killed, as he is sporting some bruising on his arms, so the blood in his system was still fresh and would have congealed in the wounds.   
Probably the killers grabbed him from both sides, pulling him back while the third plunged the stick deep into his chest. The murderer was vampiric as you can see the amount of circular scratches on the silver-lined metal of the handle, indicating chain mail gloves for protection.   
I think that was I have for you at this point in time. 

“You said Asian Sherlock. How…?”

“Dear God, do I have to spell everything out for you Lestrade? Downstairs almost nothing was destroyed, but a large Ming vase was shattered on the floor, slightly out of the way. It’s a sign. Furthermore you will find that the Speer is Asian in origin, I would think Win dynasty but that would have to be proven, probably from the Szechuan area. That should give you enough of a start point.”

“Oh my god, that was brilliant.”

Lestrade and Sherlock turned abruptly.

John stared at them for a moment before flinching. “I am sorry, Sir”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “No, Watson…it’s…fine.”

He looked at John for another moment, then turned back to the police officer.

“I would say that gives you a good head start, look for bank details, regular meetings with a male vampire, he would mark them in his day timer, circle the meeting. “  
Sherlock turned. “Watson, we are off.”  
“Wait!” Lestrade huffed, trying to get some questions together. “What if there is anything else I need to know?”  
“You have my number, Lestrade! Just call!”

And with that Sherlock was down the stairs, John hurrying behind him.


	11. The Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I would like to apologize. I am currently fighting my plot bunnies that have turned into scary monsters, and for some reason they keep dragging me down the way of John!Wump.  
> I am pretty sure things will get better. Maybe not fluffy. But better. 
> 
> WARNING this chapter: Explicit Sex. Non-con.  
> Be warned. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

The way up the stairs from the street into the flat was a hard one.  
Obviously the crime scene had been interesting, and watching Sherlock work had been intriguing, but the knowledge of the upcoming punishment churned in John’s stomach. 

When he arrived in the living room, Sherlock had already taken off his coat and thrown it over the sofa. John slowly peeled himself out of his own jacket, hung it up, and then went to retrieve the long coat of the vampire to do the same.

Sherlock stared at John with a mesmerizing gaze, and then had a quick look around.

“Ok, Watson, the punishment will commence on the floor of my bedroom, it is where I prefer these things to take place. Go upstairs and take off your clothes. I have decided that it would be a waste to not utilize your blood with this punishment, even though obviously I won’t be able to take much. However I do want to refresh the taste of your pain in my databank.”

John had stiffened, but nodded.  
For some strange reason that even made sense to him…somehow.

He turned to make his way up the stairs, when he heard the dark voice of Sherlock once more.

“Ah, yes, before you kneel on the carpet in front of the bed, the Rattan cane is in a large wooden box under the window. Place it on the bed. Also, the lube is in the nightstand, I think it would be wise for you to prepare yourself.”

And that was when fear and cold anger flushed johns system.  
He breathed for a couple of seconds, then he managed to answer:

“Prepare myself?”

“Yes, of course. I am going to have penetrative intercourse with you as it heightens the sensations of a feeding. Lubrication as well as stretching of your anal sphincters will allow the intercourse to be less painful for you and avoid injuries, especially as you have been a virgin in that respect and not used to this kind of sexual activity.”

Nausea welled up in John’s stomach and he had to fight not to throw up on the stairs where he was standing.  
He stood still, shaking slightly.  
God, he wanted to tell Sherlock to go fuck himself so very badly. Stand up to this crazy man and hit him, kill him, MURDER him, but he knew he would need to plan that carefully.  
He realized he had no choice really. 

Sherlock suppressed a smile as John straightened his shoulders, not looking at him, but the anger and hatred wavering of him like heat.  
He would have made a good soldier.  
Still might.  
Sherlock knew what was going through the man’s mind, as he had similar ideas so many centuries ago when Irene had first taken him against his will. He had thought of murder, briefly considered suicide, then started to plan his escape. He was sure that Watson had exactly the same ideas.  
The young Sherlock however had rebelled straight away against his new Mistress and the punishment had been extremely painful and humiliating.  
John was wiser than Sherlock had been. 

Watson would not try to kill himself, at least not yet, the vampire was sure of it, for he was a fighter and still believed that he could someday, somehow get away from this situation.  
It would take a long time to break this one, and Sherlock would be careful not to do it too quickly. 

He watched as John disappeared up the stairs, slowly. 

He would give the man 5 minutes.

 

By the time Sherlock stepped into the room, Watson had already carefully folded his clothes and placed them on the wooden floor next to the entrance.  
He had found the cane, placed it on top of the duvet and was now kneeling on the carpet avoiding the hard, wooden floor.  
The lube bottle stood next to him, unopened. 

Sherlock just stood and watched the mental struggle John had with himself as he stared at the bottle.  
“I will commence with the punishment in 3 minutes, Watson. I would suggest you start preparing yourself now.”  
John’s head dipped down, his hands fisted, then he slowly moved, opening the lube bottle, squirting a generous amount onto his right hand. 

Sherlock realized that him being in the room made it harder for John, but it fascinated him how the man would handle it. He stayed in place. 

The man took a shuddering breath, and then swiped his finger into the sticky clear liquid and brought it to his ass. He took another deep breath before hesitantly swirled it around his hole, not penetrating.

“2 minutes John, you may want to hurry up.” 

“Fuck, yes, just give me a moment.”

Sherlock smirked.  
“That will be an additional 3 strokes for language and not calling me Sir. 1 minute 45.”

“God dam it, Sherlock, just…”

“5 more, Watson. 1 minute 30”

 

And with that, John, wired like a spring, exploded.  
With a fluid motion he catapulted himself of the floor, his head hitting straight into the stomach of the vampire standing right behind him.  
Sherlock was unprepared.  
Even though he had seen the muscles of the whole body clench together he had not anticipated the sudden attack.  
The vampire stumbled and took a step back before his hand shot out, punching hard enough to push John halfway across the room. John fell but quickly got back to his hands and knees, attacking Sherlock once more. 

This time the taller man was prepared for it.  
Of course he was.  
The mighty swing hit John straight in the stomach, catapulting him against a wall, where he crumbled to the floor.  
John Watson breathed through the pain, taking stock, trembling with anger, his eyes blazing as he looked up at the vampire still standing next to the bed.

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes. I have tried but you are just so fucking….unreasonable, so fuck you. You expect me to behave a certain way and then another the next minute, you give me no time to get used to this, I am not your fucking TOY!”

“Yes. Yes you are.”

And then Sherlock moved so fast that all John felt was a hard punch into his solar plexus that left him gasping for air, immobilizing him on the floor as he tried to breathe, struggling in panic as he willed his lungs to work. 

Sherlock calmly walked to the box by the window, retrieving several leather cuffs and chains, throwing them on the floor next to John.  
He flipped John onto his stomach, gathering his hands in the front, binding his wrists with hard, wide leather braces that were stiff from misuse, buckling them against each other. He pulled them forward, attaching them to an O-ring to the floor.  
John was still gasping for air, the cramped muscles around his solar plexus starting to relax only slowly, struggling slightly.  
Sherlock picked up a ball gag with several straps and with fast, sure movements Sherlock pushed the ball gag into Watson’s mouth, letting the straps run from the mouth to the back of the head as well as alongside the cheeks to the forehead, where it was fastened to the other straps.  
John would not be able to remove it.

“You lost your patience much earlier than I had imagined, Watson.”  
Sherlock clipped a very short chain to a floor board ring about half a meter from the one where John’s arms were attached and clipped his slave’s collar to the end. Now Watsons hands were stretched out almost painfully, while he could hardly lift his head with the very short chain keeping him in place.  
John struggled weakly, making small sounds against the gag that was lodged deep in his throat. 

“Clearly you need to be put into place and learn about your position in this house. First, however we will commence with the punishment for your last slip-up.”

John hissed into his gag, the air thickening with the heavy musk of fear and anger.

Sherlock stood, picking up two very large leather restrains, folding John’s leg towards his back and slipping the wide band around his thigh and calf. His knees were now awkwardly bend , feet pointing towards his back, and when the two smaller cuffs now placed around his ankles were clipped to them, John truly started to panic and struggled as much as he could. 

The vampire took the last two chains on the floor, attaching them to O-rings on either sides of the doctor’s stomach and John felt like a fish flopping on the floor, trying to catch his breath, his legs pulled open and secured to the floor.  
He was spread and more or less immobile, and that was when the doctor started to dry heave. 

 

Sherlock watched the bound form of his slave twist beneath him, a well-known heat accumulating in his stomach. He calmly picked up the 12 mm thick but still nimble rattan rod from the bed, and without any warning he stepped up, lifting the cane above his head and brought it down on the exposed backside of the naked slave. 

John had not been prepared, not able to see what was happening behind him, waiting for a verbal hint that the punishment would begin.  
So when the hard stick came down on his left ass cheek, he let out a muffled scream, jerking in his chains. He quickly collected himself, forcing his body to relax, grimly deciding to stay still for the ordeal.  
He was not going to give the bastard the pleasure of hearing more from him.

The first few strikes were painful but not too bad, as Sherlock beat him steadily, the placement and intensity of the blows meant to hurt, not to injure.  
However, after about 10 strikes or so John’s skin started to turn sensitive as the hits were criss-crossing each other, welting up in red, hot streaks that burned and intensified any new stroke tenfold.  
John Watson bit hard on the ball in his mouth, focusing on the taste of old, dusty leather, squeezing his fingernails into his palms for pain to distract from pain, but to no avail.  
His resolution to stay still started to crumble, and the fire on his sore skin was taking over his whole mind, and he could not keep himself from sobbing when he had counted 20 or so hits. 

Several strikes on his left and right shoulder later, Sherlock stopped.

“32 Watson, you are done.”

The vampire was breathing faster now, not from the strain of the beating but because the slave was writhing to his feet, bound tightly, body shaking from supressed pain and small, hick-up like sobs, hands fisted above their large, rough cuffs. He almost admired how long the slave had been able to keep himself still, after the first initial shock he had been resolute in hiding his discomfort, but Sherlock learned long ago how to use his leverage and knowledge of human physiology to offer the highest amount of pain with the smallest bodily harm. All of his servants had to go through these beatings, very painful and an effective tool for punishments and he knew from experience that most would break down around the 15th stroke, of course depending on the personal pain-threshold. 

Sherlock smiled fondly as he backed off, placing the cane back on the bed, then opened his trousers.  
The beating had, as always, sexually excited him.  
His cock was half-hard from the way his new slave had struggled, trying to escape the punishment, but not able to move more than a couple of millimetres as the chains held him tightly in place.  
Sherlock had always enjoyed power play.  
He took of his trousers, knowing that the wooden floor was not good for the fine Italian wool.

The vampire picked up the bottle of lube that was close to John’s head, still opened. It had fallen during their struggle, but the viscosity of the lube had kept it from spilling onto the floor.  
Sherlock pressed a generous amount into his hand after pulling out his cock, and with quick, steady strokes distributed it from the head to the bottom of his shaft.  
Watson had failed to prepare himself and would therefore hurt, but Sherlock did not personally enjoy the clingy feeling of penetrating an unlubed rectum.  
He kneeled behind Watson, letting his fingers run appreciably over the bound, shivering legs, the man spread open so very completely before him, the curly, blond fuzz between his slave’s thighs and ass cheeks visible to Sherlock.

John shivered as he felt the vampire kneel behind him, feeling the naked legs against the welts of his naked ass. he felt the blunt head of a large cock at his hole, panicking as the reality hit that this was going to happen without any preparation, just as he had been warned, and then Sherlock pushed into him slowly but relentlessly, John whining deep in his throat as he felt himself rip, sobbing under his breath. 

_Stop… Slow down….please….STOP_

But the vampire had given him the chance.  
And he had chosen not to take it.  
The lube helped, but when Sherlock finally breached the two clenched sphincters he pushed in the rest with one hard stroke.  
John howled at what felt like a stick covered in shards pushed into him, ripping him open, sending flares of pain into his spine. He fisted his hands and pushed his forehead into the cold wood floor, willing his body to relax to allow easier access and lower the extent of his injuries. Sherlock rested against his ass, circulating his hips roughly to open the incredibly tight entrance to John’s body, drawing low moans from his bound slave.  
Sherlock could feel how tense the body under him was, but as he was looking to relish the pain of Watson today, he was not inclined to do anything against it. 

Sherlock leaned down to rest his stomach against the flaming hot back, groin flush against the welted ass, as he pulled out and pushed in again, his movements’ hard and jerky, pounding into his slave beneath him.  
Watsons legs stayed still, spread and held in place by the short chains, not obstructing the way and Sherlock fucked John in short thrusts before he bit deep into the soft flesh next to his shoulder. 

John screamed behind his gag, the bite painful without any relief, the panic making him buck against the unrelenting form on top of him as his blood was forced out of his body in a fire-hot pull that seemed to tug at his soul. Terror washed over him just as it had the last time without the special pain-reliever offered by the vampire’s saliva, his fight or flight instinct kicking in full force, screaming as he could not get away. 

Sherlock took just a couple of mouthfuls of blood before he closed the wounds, growling under his breath.  
He loved the taste of Watson, earthy and strong, with subtle nuances of coal-smoke and snow, but the pain gave a hint of bitterness that was, though not fully unpleasant, slightly dissatisfying.

The vampire rested his head on the sweaty, red-hot back of the bound man, holding on to his upper arms as he pulled, forcing himself as deep as he could go, swallowed by the tight heat. The low sounds of discomfort from his slave, added with the surge of power that flooded his system after feeding pushed him to fuck hard and fast once more, punishing strokes while lying heavy on the man bound beneath him, just lifting his ass until only the tip of his penis stayed lodged inside and brutally plunged back in.  
Sherlock panted harder, his orgasm looming in the background as the room thickened with the heady aroma of adrenalin, fear and pain. He nuzzled along the previous bitemark before he forced his teeth through the tender skin one more time, adding a relaxant to his saliva, not limiting the pain but taking the edge of the utter panic he could taste sharply in the background. 

John’s head dropped to the floor as he calmed, limps heavily resting down as the panic was replaced with silent acceptance, the hurt still there but somehow…not important anymore.  
John felt detached.  
Almost like it did not matter what was being done to him. 

Watson stilled, rocking back and forth with the continuous, faster and faster slaps against his ass as Sherlock rode him long and hard, soon as he stopped drinking, closing the wounds by swirling his tongue around them. 

Sherlock was satisfied with the outcome of his experiment and now allowed the looming orgasm to wash towards him. He scratched the back of his slave with one hand, leaving a row of 5 bloody stripes on the heavily welted back, fucking into the anticipated clench of the sphincter muscles, and then he came with a low growl grinding his pelvis into the ass of his slave, hands digging into the soft skin of Watson’s arms.  
He continued to fuck lazily as he rode his orgasm, body shivering slightly, allowing the wave of pure carnal pleasure wash over him. 

After a couple of deep breaths Sherlock pulled out in a spurt of semen and small amounts of blood, standing slowly. 

Without a second look at his shivering slave, Sherlock Holmes took his neatly folded trousers and left the room, heading to the wash room. 

He had to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference for ballgag: http://www.okokchina.com/p/Ball-gag/Ball-gag-G-03--361637.html
> 
> For the bondage position John is in, I have not been able to find a good reference pic, if any of you have trouble visualizing it, I might make a quick drawing. just let me know.
> 
>  
> 
> x
> 
> Housekeeping update, I will try very hard to update once a week, preferably Thursday.  
> Thanks all for reading!


	12. Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, thanks guys for all your lovely feedback.   
> Made me feel better.   
> And then I know that I can make the next smut chapter as bad as I want it to be….but for now, more plot.  Cause, you know I have tests and stuff coming up next week, and what better is there than to write fanfiction when you should really study instead.   
> Ah, procrastination. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

When John woke he was not alone. 

He had fallen asleep after Sherlock left the room, his mind strangely disconnected from his body. Waking felt like battling his way out of a sea of honey, his mind seemingly filled with big balls of cotton and the first thing his focus was directed to was the hot sting of the welts and scratches riddling his back and ass, the cramping of his shaking leg muscles in their awkward position and an unbelievable thirst that left a grinding scratch in his mouth and throat.   
He moved his head drowsily, the heavy chain attached to his neck clanking against the wooden floor.

“Ah, Doctor Watson. You are awake.”

John moved his head slowly, blinking through sticky lashes, focusing to the front of him.   
Mycroft Holmes was sitting comfortably on a chair, his legs crossed, holding a cup of tea.  
The vampire twisted his mouth into something that was likely meant to be a smile, and placed his cup back onto the saucer. 

“I am sorry to startle you, but there is something we need to discuss.”  
His eyes narrowed. “I believe you can understand me?”

John blinked, willing the fog in his head to disappear.   
He nodded slightly, shifting once more to find relief in his awkward position, but to no avail. 

Another twisted smile and Mycroft leaned back.  
“Ah, good. You see, Doctor Watson, I am here to talk about Sherlock.”

John tensed but had no other choice than to stay still. He stared into the blue eyes of the pale vampire, willing himself not to blink.

“You see, I worry about Sherlock. He is my, let’s say, _blood_ relative and sometimes I find myself in the awkward position to … offer him guidance in certain aspects of his life.   
Please realize that I have no interest or empathy about you as a person, but you seem like an intelligent man and I am sure you understand that your odds to survival or even a comparably _normal_ life are rather, shall we say, low at this point in time.”

Mycroft shifted in his chair, pressing his hands together, fingertips aligning in a sort of triangle.   
The vampire continued in an almost bored voice:

“I will take out your gag and we will have a civil conversation about your life with Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand, Dr. Watson?”

The bright eyes were burning into John’s, and the bound man gave a tentative nod.   
What other choice did he have?

Mycroft gave a short wave with his hand, and all of the sudden a young woman kneeled next to John, startling him before she bent to unbuckle his gag at the back of his head. She pulled it out, standing up, leaving John’s field of vision once more.

John coughed dryly, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Please…Water. Sir.”

 

Mycroft gave another wave of his hand, eyes staring at the man tightly bound to his feet.

When John had a couple of gulps of water – embarrassingly now resting in a cold puddle after he had trouble lifting and titling his head far enough due to the length of his chain on his collar. More water ran down his chin than into his mouth, but he was still thankful for the relief.

“Anything else, Doctor Watson?”

John shook his head. 

“Good. Well then. Before we begin, I need you to understand that Donors, like yourself are exceedingly rare and as servants or slaves very valuable. The blood of what we believe to be a human subspecies is more nourishing and therefore more sought after. Which was why the donor system was set up, and any bound-servant claimed will stay with their vampire for the rest of their life – unless, of course, they are traded or sold off.   
For a vampire a good donor can mean the difference between life and death in an emergency, especially when their blood pattern is compatible with their host vampire.   
And it seems you are a highly satisfying match-donor for Sherlock.   
Otherwise you would not be here. “

Mycroft changed legs slowly, never moving his eyes away from John’s face. His smile had disappeared.   
“I can guarantee you that you will never be free again, Dr. Watson. If you try to run, no matter where to, Sherlock will hunt you down and he will find you. If he notices suicidal tendencies he will most likely keep you bound solely for blood donations.   
You cannot win in this scenario, only adapt, doctor. ”

Mycroft took a moment to let this sink in. 

John could feel a cold fist squeeze his stomach, and he drew in a strangled breath, but forced his body to stay still.   
Mycroft was trying to scare him.   
Scare him into submission. 

Unfortunately at the same time John realized that the vampire was probably saying the truth.  
It dawned to him that he would indeed have to either get accustomed…somehow…to his situation or……. die.   
It seemed really that simple.

Mycroft briefly watched the mental struggle in the man’s eyes, then he continued. 

“Now, Sherlock has an unpleasant history on his treatment of bond-servants.   
At an age of over half a millennium he has owned his fair share.   
Some of the donors were trained for his needs by a third party as my brother neither has the time or patience to do so, and that can break a man, Dr. Watson, let me assure you.   
He has killed 4 of his donors all together; none of them lasted for more than a week.   
All of them young men, strong, with a long life ahead of them.   
Good blood.   
Sherlock only takes the best   
Unfortunately I must admit that the last one died only 40 years ago. Sherlock has not had a donor since, so he is probably a little rusty when it comes to human….needs.”

John bit his tongue to hold back a sarcastic remark.   
He was going to listen and then talk. 

“This is going to stop, and you are going to help me with this. You are an intelligent man and have already considered your options I am sure.   
Sherlock has no time or patience to train you.   
It is up to you to survive.   
Are you interested, Doctor Watson?”

John closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.   
Of course he was interested. 

He cleared his throat, his voice raspy as he answered: “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. May I ask how you found yourself in this position?

There was a smirk on Mycroft’s face that made John flush angrily from top to bottom.   
He pressed his hands against each other, eyes narrowing on the floor. 

“I was punished, Sir.”

Mycroft took a deep, exaggerated breath, rolling his eyes. 

“Dr. Watson, this will take a very long time if you expect me to ask for every single detail. It would be helpful if you could give me a general overview of the situation.   
I would think around 30 strokes with a heavy cane and the rather restrictive bindings are not a usual, everyday punishment, probably a combination of two if not more offensive actions on your part.   
For you see, Doctor, this apartment is not clean.   
You’ve upset him enough to warrant him tying you up instead of having you do his much needed chores. This has not been for his personal pleasure; it is really not Sherlock’s style.   
What warranted this punishment?”

“I…” John blushed. He knew that Mycroft would find no fault in Sherlock’s disciplinary measures.   
He took a deep breath. “I disrupted his feeding session with another vampire, Sir.”

There was silence for a while.

“And who might that other vampire be, Doctor Watson?”

John squirmed. “I am not sure that it is within my allowance to talk about this, Sir. You may want to ask Sherlock about it.”

Mycroft stared at him. John was not sure if he had crossed a line.   
But he was trying to play the game that these crazy sons of bitches were forcing on him.   
Just trying to survive.

A low laugh came from Mycroft. His strangely twisted smile was back on his face.  
“Very good John, you see, you will make a fine bound servant one day. Just remember to refer to Sherlock as Master or Mr. Holmes when talking to anyone. ”

Mycroft shifted, taking another sip from his cup.   
He carefully set it down before continuing. 

“Where were we? Ah yes, you interrupted a feeding session. Why?”

John swallowed, hard. “He was beating a girl, hardly more than a child, and she was crying out in pain. I reacted instinctively and told him to stop.”

There was silence for a moment.  
Mycroft stared down at the bound slave, who in turn was staring to the floor, tense, waiting for an answer. 

He abruptly unfolded his legs, placing the cup and saucer on the small table next to him.

“Clearly Doctor Watson I have misjudged you. You are a fool.”

The vampire stood, flicking imaginary specks of dust from his shirt.

“That is unfortunate; I would have thought that your survival instinct would be stronger than that. I bid you a good day, Doctor Watson.

John started to struggle, the chains rattling.  
“No, please…wait, please Sir.”

Mycroft looked down at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Sir, please, I understand what I have done wrong, but I was not prepared in any way and it was first time I have ever seen vampires feed on anyone in a private setting. I did not realize what it implied. It was unexpected. I understand now, Sir. I was just not ready.”

Mycroft stayed in place, as if deliberating.

“What would you do now in this sort of situation, Doctor Watson?”

John swallowed, hard.   
He knew what he would do.  
Exactly the same. Help him God.   
“I would…I would stay in my allocated place, realizing that nothing I say or do will make a difference. I will close my ears and my eyes to anything that upsets me. Sir.”

Mycroft sneered: “You still speak like a rebel.   
I am not sure if you will ever be able to supress that, unless we break you in properly, of course. There are a few training camps for servants like you.   
It may be the safest option for all of us.”

No.  
No.   
No.  
That. Did. Not. Sound. Good. 

John fisted his hands, forcing himself not to plead.  
“No…I will try to accept, I AM accepting it, I know there is nothing I can do.  
I just need time to get used to this situation. I am…going to be better prepared in the future. As you said I am an intelligent man, I will be able to work this out.”

Mycroft stared down at the tightly bound slave.

“You have to learn faster than you did so far, Doctor Watson. Or I WILL have you trained.”  
The vampire slowly returned to his seat and sat down once more.

“Anthea, another cup, will you be so kind?”

He turned back to John, unsettling smile once more on his face.

“Now I believe that you are starting to understand the position you are in.   
Mind you, it can be a very powerful place if you play it correctly.   
My brother seems to find you…fascinating.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted as if he had tasted something bitter.

“Dr. Watson, back to your punishment. You said you disrupted two vampires during a feeding session which warrants the beating, but not the bindings. Sherlock likes to play with his power over mortals and vampires alike, and normally does not rely on chains and cuffs.  
What else happend?”

John cringed. There were stars behind his eyes and his left leg cramped up rhythmically.   
He knew that the next answer was dangerous.

“I attacked him, Sir.” His voice was calm and steady.   
However he did not dare look at the vampire.

Mycroft stilled. 

“Excuse me?”

John lifted his eyes, calmly returning the vampires gaze. 

“I attacked him. I understood I would be punished and was ready to take whatever would happen like a man, but then Sherlock wanted me to prepare myself for him to….to…”

“Ah, I see. Intercourse. You are, of course, heterosexual, maybe even bi-curious, but not gay. Believe me when I say it is something you will get used to. I take it he did not use the pleasure bite this time, but has he offered it to you yet?”

Mycroft’f face was twisted into a condescending grin.  
John lowered his gaze, his cheeks burning. 

“Sir, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but he was going to rape me.   
He DID rape me.   
I am sure it would not make a difference whether I am straight or gay, being forced to prepare myself naked while a vampire that took my freedom is watching, counting down the seconds….”

John swallowed, hard. 

“Also, for the pleasure bite, I was not myself when that happened, he _drugged_ and then forced me to a mock consensual intercourse again and again until I passed out. I had hallucinations. It was Rape. Nothing else, Sir.”

Mycroft leaned back and took another sip from his now fresh, steaming tea. 

“I see. Well, clearly you react very strongly to certain aspects of our saliva, but I am sure Sherlock will be aware of this now as well. As to the rape, well….  
It is part of our feeding culture to sleep with the donor that we feed on.   
There is no way around it, Doctor Watson. But Sherlock, I have been told can be a very fulfilling sexual partner if he sees the worth in consenting intercourse.”

Mycroft took another sip. 

“Well, Doctor Watson, I think that would be all. Would you like some more water before we replace the gag once more?”

John bit his lip, then nodded silently.   
“Sir, you said you would give me some advice.”

“Ah yes, of course.   
As far as I can see, you have two choices, Doctor Watson on how your life will play out as from now on.   
Either you can continue to fight and end up being used as a blood cattle, bound and fed upon. Not a very interesting existence I assure you.  
Or you can try to befriend him. Do as he says. Answer any questions truthfully, follow his orders even if they make no sense or may seem humiliating. After all, you are just human Dr. Watson, no one will expect you to stand up against your master.   
Just give in.  
Once he allows you modest amounts of freedom after this…punishment… I would suggest to get to know him. Ask him questions. Stroke his intellect.   
And of course you will learn to read him, learn his reactions, his way of thinking. Submit, fully, but with intelligence. That is all I can do for you at this point, Doctor Watson.”

Mycroft stood, stroking at imaginary wrinkles on his suit jacket.   
“What I am saying is that he seems to be…interested in you. He wants to keep you around, for you to offer him distraction, and if you play it right you are going to be able to live your life unhindered, maybe even be allowed to pick up a job in a vampire-run facility once day.”

“Yes, and be beaten and raped on a regular basis.”

John tried hard not to sound bitter.  
He really did. 

“As I said, Doctor Watson, Sherlock will not train you, but you may be able to influence his behaviour in the future if you can learn to read him. After all, you have a very powerful card in your hand”. 

John shifted, looking up once more at the towering vampire.

“And what would that be?”

“Yourself.”

Mycroft turned towards the exit.  
“Anthea, another glass of Water for Doctor Watson here. Then you can buckle him back in place. I will be downstairs waiting for Sherlock to return.”

He turned once more towards John, who was having a hard time seeing him without turning his head. 

“Good evening, Doctor Watson.”

And with that he left.


	13. Mycroft

Sherlock was walking towards Baker Street, oblivious to the rain, carrying the bag that held several materials for blood taking and some of his experiments he was looking to set up.

He was satisfied with the punishment and the feeding session with his slave, which added valuable knowledge first of all about John Watson’s boundaries and need for discipline as well as his blood aroma for pain, panic and fear.  
He would store them in the room of his mind palace reserved for his slaves, where he had started a new directory under the name of Watson. 

 

**General Taste-profile / Watson, John, MD.** : Rich, earthy, medium amounts of snow/ coal-smoke, subtle hints of pine leaves and blueberries.   
Salty undertones.  
Very satisfying. 

Additional flavours (index by date of date of experiment):

_Pleasure (induced)_ : rich, dark chocolate and apricot with a hint of honey and cinnamon. Factor: 8

_Pain_ : A mixture between bitterness and spices, not unpleasant but overwhelming as a main ingredient and better to be mixed with other tastes. Best combination needs to be determined.   
Factor: 5

_Panic / Fear_ : Spicy and bitter, on a less subtle note and taste is slightly unpleasant, not recommended.   
Factor: 2

_Necessary testing’s_ :   
(Note: self-induced / si = without influence by vampiric enzymes)

Anger.   
Happiness. (self-induced)  
Lust. (self-induced)

 

_Possible Testing:_  
Hunger /Thirst  
Heat / Cold  
Oxygen-deprivation  
Drugs (variable) To be determined.

_Suggested experiments_ :   
Pleasure, Lust+Pain.  
Happiness/Lust – Relationship of trust necessary. Keep on file for later possibilities.   
Heat/Cold/Hunger/Thirst/ Oxygen – let donor re-establish. 

 

x

 

When Sherlock stepped into his living room, he was not surprised that Mycroft was sitting in the arm chair on the right next to the fire place. He had been prepared for him once he had smelled the aroma of two vampires along the stairs trailing all the way to his apartment, subtle undertones of the old, dusty scent and expensive wool of his blood brother and the French perfume that Anthea favoured.   
Still, Sherlock was in a sour mood, realizing that Mycroft had let himself into his locked flat and with a high probability looked through his place and found, possibly even talked, to Watson. 

It angered Sherlock, but he swallowed every indication of it before pushing the door to the living room open, Mycroft Holmes sitting comfortably in his favourite armchair, cradling a cup of tea.

“Mycroft.” He nodded his head coolly. 

“Sherlock. How nice of you to join us. Anthea made some Tea, would you like some?”

Sherlock saw the woman in his kitchen, looking around the corner. She gave him a curt nod, which he ignored. 

“Tea, Myroft? Really? I understand the necessity for it when we were trying to hold up appearances in the olden days, but now people would understand if you turned out the invitation to drink coloured water we cannot even integrate into our system and provides no nourishment whatsoever.“

“Ah.” Mycroft smiled. “But it is such a British thing to do, Sherlock, is it not?”

Sherlock grunted.  
He sat opposite of Mycroft, crossing his legs casually as he watched the other with narrowed eyes.

“I am sure you had a look around in my absence. Tell me, how is Watson?”

Mycroft pulled his mouth into a painful smile.   
“Ah yes, the doctor. I must say I was not really surprised to already see him tied and beaten on the floor of your bedroom, but I must confess I very much hoped I would not. But I guess some things just never change, do they, Sherlock?”

Sherlock lifted his hands, pressing his fingers under his chin, unconsciously mirroring the hand position his blood brother had taken earlier with Watson.   
“You spoke to him.”   
It was not a question.

“Mmmmmm…” Mycroft stirred his tea with the spoon, careful not to clink it against the side of the cup, allowing small strands of steam to rise from the hot liquid.

“I must say, he is very much aware of his situation and the errors he has made with you….But you realize, that this man is a little bit more _feral_ than I think will be healthy for you and him. “

Mycroft slowly took the spoon out of the cup and carefully placed it back on the saucer.   
Then he took a sip of the hot liquid. 

“The head of the Donor system gave me a call today when she noticed that you had taken him without going through the necessary processes. Of course, your _assistance_ in the revolution and the slight chaos of its aftermath have made it easy for me to keep her off your back, but they will keep a close eye on you and your progress.”  
He looked up, gaze studying his tense brother opposite of him.  
“You need to be careful Sherlock. They will be watching you.”

Sherlock did not bat an eye. “Nothing new, surely.”

Mycroft frowned.  
“Clearly not, but with the whole reorganization of the government bodies since the Rising and the new systems in place, well…let’s just say they will be less lenient with you than they used to be.”  
The older vampire leaned forward, his hand steady on his cup of tea.   
“They are even speaking of punishment for unnecessary mistreatment or death of donors. “

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.   
His voice was cold when he answered, eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face.   
“And of course it would not look good if the leader of Great Britain’s blood brother would be involved in a scandal. Well, I am sorry, Mycroft, but Watson has deserved the punishment he has received. I am not looking to _harming_ him more than necessary.”

“Clearly. I really hope that you don’t mess this one up Sherlock. His taste is divine. It would be a waste to lose him. Try to befriend him for a change. I really don’t want to have to lend you my donors again … the state you brought Nadja back in…was appalling. She never lost the sourness from her taste after. You spoiled her, and I won’t have that happen again.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Mycroft, I have told you this time and time again. Was there anything else you wanted to lecture me on?”

Mycroft pulled his mouth into a cruel smirk.   
“I heard the Mistress was here….”

Sherlock did not move.   
Did not blink.   
His eyes continued to focus on his brother.   
“She brought me some supplies. As you may have realized, I am a little low on human products, and even if I could find some of the last donor’s clothes, I am sure that bell-bottoms really are not my new slave’s style, what do you think?”

Mycroft pulled his face into a grimace and took another sip of tea.

Sherlock continued. “If you need to know for your files, she brought a week’s supply of fresh food , a blood sugar measuring device as well as an emergency supply of 2 litres of Hartmann’s and 1 litre of Lactated Ringer solution.   
Also, you know how the Mistress is, incredibly nosy and interested in things that are really none of her business. She wanted to have a look at my new slave.”

“Mmmm, yes. And I believe from his state the meeting did not go too well….  
You have never been very good at charming your donors. It will work fine if you just want a mindless drone, but again, if you want someone to live with you without spoiling their taste permanently…you need to show some more…restrained behaviour, dear brother.”

“I don’t need your input, Mycroft.   
I had donors in the past that submitted well to my needs, and I am sure it will work again with Watson.”

“If you are talking about Pascale, he was a submissive pain-slut that worshiped you. This one is a whole different type. Again I would be happy to have someone train him for you.”

“Not interested Mycroft.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, closing the button on his jacket.

“Are we done here? Or is there anything else you want to lecture me on? Also, Mycroft, the next time you speak to my donor without my absolute permission, you can look for a new donor-sniffer, do you understand?”

Mycroft’s smile never faltered.

“Of course, Sherlock, as you wish.”

Mycroft lowered his cup on the small table next to him and stood in a fluid motion, almost too elegant for a man of his size.   
“We’ll be off then, let me know if there is anything you may need.   
Also, as much as I see the need to punish your slave, have him clean this place first, will you? It is…atrocious.”

With another smirk and a nod of the head he took his umbrella from the corner and waved a hand to Anthea, who was now standing closely behind Sherlock.

“I bid you a good day….brother.”

Sherlock did not answer as he watched the two vampires leave his flat. 

When he heard the door to the street close, he sat down with a sigh, eyes fixed on the still steaming cup that Mycroft had left on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long wait.  
> I have exams in one week, and they will last for about three…weeks. Argh.   
> So I have a month of hell in front of me. 
> 
> Also, the lovely mikyu won the A03 auction, and is still desperately waiting for her fill. Once that is done I am going to focus fully back on this story…..  
> So yes, the updates will be irregular, but I still have so many plot bunnies…I shall catch them and cuddle them to death.  
> Thanks for all the support and comments and kudos, everyone!


	14. Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter....can you believe it?
> 
> One more weeks of exams, then I should be able to dive right back in...after sleeping for about a week.....
> 
>  
> 
> x

Sherlock had read the report on John Watson.

It had been boring, as the life of most humans was, short and not very eventful.   
After all, what could someone accomplish in about 30 years, of which the first couple of them were spent eating, defecating and being a general nuisance?

Sherlock remembered that John was born to a stable middle-class family, had the privilege of private schooling and university, medical training and finally employment. 

Both parents were still alive.  
John had one sibling, a homosexual sister, with whom he did not get along.   
There was some history of heart disease in his family, and apart from a latex allergy and slight lactose intolerance, John Watson was healthy. Or at least as healthy as a man working in a high-stress, long-hour environment could be, sometimes indulging in junk food and whose only sport was the weekly football matches with his pals.   
Dr. John Watson drank moderately (even before drinking was restricted and monitored), cheered for Chelsea but was not fanatic about sports. 

There had been 3 more or less long-term, steady girlfriends with whom he went out during his life, the first one he met at 17 and the last relationship had come to an end about 2 years ago, probably a nod to the upcoming revolution.  
There had been a small note under this chapter that this particular woman had recently been terminated. 

Sherlock had read about the research that Watson had conducted in preparation for the Revolution, and he was impressed with the report on the history of vampires as well as his relentless effort working on different blood samples to find out how donors differentiate from other humans. Of course he did not get even close to the truth, but the continuous work over several years still impressed him. 

Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair.  
Time to talk to his bond-servant. 

 

After unbuckling each leather strap, the spreader bar and the gag, Sherlock watched John for a short while as the man coughed, struggling to ease out his cramped up legs painfully and finally pulling himself up to his knees. John rested there, breathing heavily, waving slightly, either from pain or hunger, Sherlock did not know.

“Watson, you will now go to shower and make yourself presentable, then you will join me for a talk in the living room. No need for clothes, you will not be going outside. Today you will clean the flat.”

And without anything else Sherlock turned on his heel, leaving his shivering slave stunned on the floor. 

 

Sherlock sat, eyes resting on his naked slave kneeling before him.   
“Mycroft was here. He talked to you.”

“Yes, Sir.” The voice of John was hardly more than a whisper, raspy from spending a night with the gag.

“Good God, Watson, don’t grovel.” Sherlock snorted in slight disgust, watching how the man tensed in his shoulders. “What did he want?”

John shifted, eyes scanning the room uneasily before they stilled at Sherlock’s feet once more.

“He talked to me about you, Sir. And my positon here.”

“And?”

“He said that…” John’s mind roamed. Everything they had discussed could be seen as a break of trust to Sherlock. He started to sweat, feeling small droplets run down his brow and along his spine.

Sherlock let out a hiss, then leaned back, settling in once more.

“Watson, I am not going to punish you no matter what the topic was. After all, he is the vampire, and I am sure you had little choice on where the discussion was going.”

John nodded, his shoulders straightening ever so slightly.

“He told me my options. That I would never be free again, and that I had two choices either to try to live amicably with you or as…a…blood cattle, I believe he called it.”  
Sherlock could hear the resignation in the voice.

“Hmmmmm…..anything else?”

“Not really Sir, he told me that you had…donors in the past and that you may be a little rusty when it comes to handling humans. And that it would be up to me on how my stay would turn out.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, and John flinched. 

He hated himself for the reaction, but this was what he was now.   
A scared slave.   
Disgust welled in his stomach, and flooded his tongue bitterly.

Sherlock pushed a hand through his errand curls.   
“Everyone seems to think I will fail at this. That is unacceptable. I have owned long-term slaves before, and there is no reason that I should not be able to handle a mere human.”

He turned swiftly, towering over the kneeling man to his feet, glowering down at him. 

“Well, I am going to prove them wrong. You are going to be a content bound-servant with a moderate amount of freedom and happy submission to me and my peers. I will not need to force you, because you will WANT to do this, to serve me, to please me. And this is going to start now.”

John had kept still, his eyes on the floor. He had felt his body stiffen at the short speech, but forced his body to relax once more.

Happy Submission? Wanting to _please_ him?  
Yeah.  
Like that was going to happen. 

“Watson, what will it need to be content with your situation?”

John thought he had misheard. 

He looked up briefly and as he saw that Sherlock had sat once more, now leaning towards him, his fingers under his chin, eyes narrowed, staring intently at him.

He was serious.

John felt a hysteric laugh bubble up his throat that he could conceal by faking a coughing fit. 

“Ahhhhmmmmm…..” John cleared his throat and shifted slightly.

Not knowing how far he could take it, his back welted from the beating he had taken last night, his ass sore, the fear of what Sherlock Holmes could do to him deep in his bones.  
Normally his remark would have been snarky, and he had to swallow down the bitter words that lay on his tongue. But he still had to pay for attacking Sherlock (Jesus Christ….) and he was now careful not add to this. 

“How do you mean, Sir?”

Sherlock leaned back, tone once more condescending.

“I see that you are slow as everyone else on the uptake. Well, no surprise there. I need you to tell me what it will take to make you accept your fate, what needs to be done for you to stop rebelling against me, to fully submit to your position.”

John’s mind drew a blank. 

Well….  
The only thing he could come up with….

_Being dead?  
YOU being dead?_

But Sherlock actually looked like he was serious, and John drew together all his energy to say the next sentence.

“I would like to wear clothes.”

It was a small start, but one that was important.   
Obviously.

Sherlock took a deep breath and rolled his eyes.  
“Boring. Predictable. Fine.”

A warm rush of happiness flushed through John and he had to keep himself still to not allow it to show. His head was rushing with the possibilities that had just opened up to him.   
Obviously he wanted full freedom, to leave when he pleased, to go outside, not wear this _damned_ collar….  
Not yet.   
Let’s start small. 

“I don’t want to have to kneel every time you or someone else speaks to me.”

Sherlock knotted his brow.  
“Kneeling has been a sign for respect and submission for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. I don’t see why that would be a bother to you.”

“I am not a slave but you treat me as such.”

“Ah, but you see Watson, you are, in all ways, inferior to me. In age, strength, intellect, power.  
Also, this is what the vampire society has done for hundreds of years. Why change a system that is not broken?”

John had to bite his tongue but quickly remembered who was in front of him. It would be a bad time to bleed when Sherlock had a nose like a goddamn shark. 

John kept his voice calm as he answered:  
“Yes Sir, I do understand, but you yourself said that you don’t want to be what others expect from you. I am fine with kneeling when it is necessary for you in front of your peers. But at home, when it is just the two of us, maybe we can just… leave it?”

John swallowed, looking up at Sherlock, who still looked very dubious.  
“It would make things…easier. For me.”

Sherlock let out a sharp sigh.  
“Fine. But if there is any sign that you abuse any kind of lee-way I am giving you in these things, we will go back to where we are now. I demand your respect.”

John lowered his head and nodded.   
Swallowed hard.   
He would have to work on himself.  
He just prayed to God he would not forget where he was now.

And that this crazy son of a bitch did not change his mind later because he preferred John naked on his knees…

“Clothes, no kneeling. What else, Watson?”  
John’s mind raced, but everything he felt he wanted to say would probably make Sherlock close up to him and end their conversation. 

“I…” John had no idea how to articulate his next point.

_Stop raping me?_  
No, that would not work….  
 _Stop raping me, PLEASE?_  
Smooth, real smooth John.

“I guess…I feel like you don’t see me as a human being but more like an animal or a toy. You said yourself that this is what I am now. But I am not…. Am not….”

What?  
A Fuck toy?  
A blood dispensing machine?  
What?

Sherlock grinned. “Ah, and now we are getting to the point. Continue, Watson.”

“I….I am trying to adjust, I really do, but I am…I feel…”

“Spit it out, Watson, we don’t have all day.”

“Fine. You beat me, you rape me, you feed from me, you treat me as less than lots of people would an animal. I would like to …I don’t know, maybe _talk_ things through before you beat me. Know what you expect me to do. Maybe see whether we can work something out without…Pain and rape.” 

“You are my servant; you have to do as I ask. Since you have arrived all you have been doing is bristling against my commands.”  
There were definite signs of danger showing on Sherlock’s face, and John once more pulled up his shoulders, worried he had crossed that line that had never been discussed. 

The man and the vampire sat opposite of each other, John breathing as shallowly as he could to supress his uprising fear.   
Finally when Sherlock said nothing and just continued to stare, John decided to talk once more.  
He might not get the chance ever again. 

“I just wanted to answer your question, and for me to be… _content_ in this situation, I would need a reasonable amount of freedom and ….I don’t want to have sex with you.”

John looked up and stared into the blue eyes of Sherlock.   
The answer was flat and intermediate.

“That is not going to happen, Watson. I have explained that sex is a common way for us to feed. But you are lucky, I have determined that your pain profile is not nearly as satisfying as your pleasure profile, so you will not have to go through another session like last night again. However I can take greater care that it is more…stimulating for you in the future.”

John stared to the floor, his eyes burning.  
He slowly shook his head.  
“I…I am not gay…”

“That does not matter. As long as you feel pleasure, it does not matter where it comes from. I am done discussing this point. What else?”

John felt himself sink into a deep, sad hole.   
He had hardly slept the previous night, cold, in pain, uncomfortable enough to hardly get any rest.

“I don’t know. I guess I would like the freedom to leave the flat when I am not needed to go shopping or run errands, to be able to get some fresh air.”

Sherlock shifted and leaned back.

“That can of course be arranged, but at the moment the chance of you trying to escape is still too high. But once we have built a relationship of trust, you are free to go outside.”

The vampire stood, once more towering over his naked slave.

“Well, this was definitely an interesting discussion, let’s take it from here, shall we?  
I would suggest you order yourself some food, then commence cleaning the flat.  
I will let you know if there is anything else I require from you today.”

Sherlock left towards the kitchen, John still kneeling on the floor, fighting the overwhelming panic and depression that had been flooding over him.   
He had to keep reminding himself that this was a start, and that he could not expect a full change in the beginning.

Then why did he feel so hollow?

He stood and slowly made his way back up to the bedroom to retrieve the clothes he had left folded on the floor.

He had a flat to clean.


	15. Life begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence guys. 
> 
> Exams sucked loads of energy from me but I finally managed to climb out of bed once more to write.  
> It is my birthday tomorrow and I was working on a birthday chapter for me and Mr. Chumberbatch....smuddy smut smut and there is nothing John can do about it.
> 
> Well. And then plot appeared and had to be taken care of.  
> But the next chapter is already half way done and it will be a great present! (Dominant Sherlock is all I am saying!)
> 
> Also? Ben and I should totally marry. Cause, we were born on the same day or whatever. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

The way back upstairs to retrieve his clothes from the bedroom was a long and painful one.

Hurting, his limbs stiff and his back and buttocks screaming abuse, John had to bite his lip every step, every time he had to lift his knee or place pressure on…well, anything really.  
He took a deep breath once he was once more in Sherlock’s bedroom where his clothes were folded on the floor, and with a sigh he slowly pulled on a pair of boxers, socks and a very soft T-shirt. When he tried to put on his trousers he realized that the hard denim of his jeans was just too much for his abused skin.

Boxers only then.  
Fine.

Once he was dressed he remembered that Sherlock had offered him to order food, and his steps were slow and heavy as he made his way back down to the kitchen, eyes trailing on the floor but every now and then flicking around the room to see where he was and – more important – where that damned vampire went to.

John found Sherlock in the kitchen, balancing on a stool behind an ancient looking microscope, staring through the lenses intently as John stood in the entry, unsure what to do.  
It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock would not react to his presence, so he slowly made his way further, heading straight to the fridge and opened it with a sharp pull.

He closed it with a shocked groan the moment he could see what was inside.  
The left-over bread and vegetables Irene had provided him with, yes.  
The three different types of blood bags, yes.  
The two human-looking hearts and one hand?  
Not so much.

His fast movement had strained his black and blue bruises all over his back, and John Watson winced under his breath.  
He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his hot head on the cold, slick surface of the fridge.

Human parts.  
Human parts in the fridge.

“They are for my experiments. You can leave them. Don’t touch any of my experiments without my exact permission.”

John swallowed. He realized that his shoulders were still hunched and that answering the vampire made his stomach cramp in a way that it normally didn’t.  
In fear.

He turned slowly, staring at the vampire who was still focused on the microscope, every now and then scribbling notes with his left, without raising his gaze.

“Where should I put my food?”  
It was really the only intelligent question he could come up with.

Sherlock looked up, quick and sharp.

“Is it not in there?”

John swallowed. “Well, yes, but with the body parts….it is not hygienic…”

Sherlock hissed, his eyes narrowing.  
“Don’t touch the experiments. I will take care to put them on the lower shelves. You can keep your food further on the top.”

John nodded.  
He was not going to argue.  
Quickly he grabbed himself something to eat and fled to the living room. 

John had decided to start cleaning in the bathroom, as the apartment was so filthy that the point to pick the worst spot was moot.  
Also, it was the room furthest from the vampire, not counting Sherlock’s bedroom, but that was another matter entirely.  
He REALLY did not want to go in there either.

After finding enough cleaning utensils to clean a whole apartment building, John started scrubbing at the black stains around the bathtub, cursing under his breath, wondering when someone had last cleaned this space.

 

Thank God Sherlock stayed away from him. 

 

After a day and a half, in which John stayed quiet and distracted his angry and confused mind with vigorously scrubbing every available surface in the bathroom, hallway and finally bedroom.

John heard the ring downstairs and tensed for a second as he now always seemed to do when there was an unexpected noise, then he stilled, duster forgotten in his hand as he strained his ears and tried to listen to Sherlock’s husky voice answer abruptly.

The call was short, and in less than a minute Sherlock had made his way upstairs, pulling a new shirt from the drawers as he changed quickly, ignoring his bound servant who had been dusting the corners.  
John watched in silence, and once Sherlock was fully dressed he turned to the man, eyes like gleaming hard pebbles. 

“Man-hunt. A donor escaped. I will lock the doors, don’t be stupid and try something similar. There is a number in the kitchen where you can order food, and I believe Harrods delivers clothes and food now as well. Might as well get yourself a new wardrobe and whatever nourishment you will require. There is a donor menu on their website. My credit card is on the kitchen table. I may be a few days.”

Sherlock pulled a thin scarf around the neck, as he made his way back down to the front door, John scrambling to follow him.  
“Mrs. Hudson from downstairs will check on you once a day, she will also allow the deliveries to come inside. Her number is on the fridge if there is an emergency. You can also just scream.”

Sherlock turned one more time towards John, eyes sparkling.

“Don’t run Watson. You would not like the consequences.  
I, however, might.”

And with that he was out the door.

Leaving a slightly stunned and fully confused John Watson behind. 

 

Sherlock was gone for 9 whole days.  
It was…heaven.

 

John tiptoed around the flat for the first two days, cowering slightly when he heard steps on the stairs, only to find himself in the loving care of Mrs. Hudson, the human landlady that lived underneath them. She was chatty as she entered, bringing along soup and sandwiches on the first day, ignoring the broad collar on John’s throat as she set down the plates, her eyes scanning the living room before she told John to sit and eat.  
“I have known Sherlock for a long while now, he will forget to eat himself, I am sure he has more important things on his mind than to remember to take care of you.”

John sat, chewing on the egg, mayo and lettuce sandwich and groaning in delight when he tried the thick potato soup that had come with it.

He was quiet, listening to the elderly woman chat about her life, how much of a shame it was what had happened to London and then to babble about her favourite TV-series, wondering when it would finally start airing again.

John kept his eyes on the floor, silent, clearly aware of his state in the ill-fitting clothes and broad collar, the wariness etched into his skin. 

Before Mrs. Hudson left, as she gathered the plates she smiled warmly at John: “If you need anything at all sweetheart, just let me know. Sherlock told me you have problems settling in, no wonder, young man like yourself, so he wanted to make sure that you order food and clothes.  
Just let me know if you need anything else.”

And with a smile she left.

But all John heard was the door lock behind her.

 

After about 3 days of cleaning the flat in a numb state and finally running out of any kind of food that Irene had brought, John reluctantly sat down at Sherlock’s laptop to order online.

There were two user names set up once the laptop powered up, one which was called “administrator” and the other “John Watson”.  
John needed no password to enter the second account, but realized after a quick check that everything he did would be recorded. He also had very limited access to the computer in general. However, the internet was open for him. 

Reminding himself that Sherlock had suggested Harrods, he found the website quickly and browsed.  
His past low fashion-consciousness as well as the reluctance to spend loads of money for clothes had kept him away from the high-end stores so far, but he did not take joy from the possibility now.

He skipped the Exclusives and Formal sections, but looked at the Knitwear, Shirts, Jeans, Trousers and Nightwear section.  
Sherlock had not left him with specifics what he should buy, and John was tempted, just for a second, to buy the £500 Alexander McQueen shirt and fitting Armani jeans, just to spite the vampire.  
But of course the second was gone faster than he could take a deep breath, knowing that the punishment would never, not in a million years, be worth it. 

Slowly John selected two sweaters, a blue Paul Smith and beige Diesel Hoodie, three white T-shirts, a dark blue Boss jeans, dark grey sweats and 5 pairs of Boxers and 6 pairs of Socks.  
He really had no idea what he would need, but in worst case he could always add to it.  
Even though he stuck to the low price categories the amount summed up quickly, and therefore he decided to hold off on the shoes and instead try to clean his blood-splattered white trainers as far as he could. 

Next he logged on to the “Food and Wine” section, and in the drop-down menu he quickly saw the “Blood variety and Donor Food.”  
Skipping the blood, which came in all price categories prices (orange-fed male child, rare harvest….25 year old Male Brazilian, guaranteed toxin-free…..Pregnant American, no diet-information available….) and opened the donor part.

Thank god there was an easy overview.

He could either choose all the items himself, but there were pre-set menu’s (with and without meat, Vegan, Low and high calories, Low and high carbs, Low and high Sugars….) and John chose the simplest one week menu (including meat) for a regular 2,500 calorie per day intake as Sherlock had left no specific rules for him to follow. 

He entered all the information from Sherlock’s credit card and leaned back, massaging his temples. 

This was the first time he had ever ordered clothing and food over the internet, and it made it even more clear to him that he was a prisoner. 

John Watson took a deep breath and slowly stood, eyes sadly scanning the still messy living room surrounding him.  
Back to work. 

 

For 4 days John Watson scrubbed and cleaned every available surface of the flat, even the windows (that did not open apart from a small slit to allow a little bit of a breeze) and the depths of the cupboards.  
The cleaning allowed his mind to empty, to focus on the task at hand which was much easier than thinking about what had happened to his life. 

The food and clothes arrived within 6 hours of ordering them.  
John wished that Sherlock had a washing machine, but instead he soaked the new underwear, shirts and socks in the bathtub and asked Mrs. Hudson to do the rest for him in the laundry room in the basement.  
He felt bad he could not help her, but she had just winked at him and brought back his washed and dried laundry the very next day.

On the morning of the 5th day John walked through the flat, inspecting the living room, hallway, kitchen, bedrooms and bathroom and realized that they had been sufficiently dusted and cleaned, apart from that small science area next to the stove that he did not dare touch. 

Not knowing if it would be all right for John to open and clean out Sherlock’s wardrobe, he went on to defrosting the freezer and cleaning out (very disgusted and careful) the fridge. 

And that was when everything hit him. 

Holding a towel under the by now stinking human body parts, he realized what he was doing.  
Where he was.  
WHAT he was.

John stumbled, then fell to his knees, the towel still clutched in his hand as the fridge stood wide open, a dry sob forcing it’s way painfully up his throat.

_Slave._  
Bound-servant.  
 _Slave._  
Blood-cattle.  
 _Slave._  
Sex-slave.  
 _Slave._  
 _Slave._

_Slave…….._

 

A low, almost inhuman sound escaped from what felt like the bottom of John’s heart and tears started streaming down his face as his breath hitched.  
John Watson cried silently.  
Always had.

This was how Mrs Hudson found him almost 45 min later, kneeling on the cold kitchen floor, tears streaming from his eyes, focused on the floor, not reacting to her soft whispers.

_Panic attack._

Of course John knew what it was. 

_He could not move._

He was a doctor for Christ sake.  
He had fought in the revolution.

_His body did not care._

John’s legs felt like they were glued to the floor as he tried to focus on Mrs. Hudson, hearing her voice through wads of cotton, his whole skin tingling hot and cold.  
The lady crooned and pressed a cold towel to his forehead, as she tried to coax him off the floor, to no avail.  
In the end she ended up making tea, bringing up chocolate biscuits that made John gag and pulling up a chair to sit next to the cowering doctor, pulling his head onto her knees as she stroked his ash-blond hair, her voice a soothing background noise that did not seem to stop. 

_Slave._  
 _Slave._

_Slave…….._

 

When Mrs. Hudson came by the next day, she did not mention the incidence in any way.  
John was almost glad. 

 

Day #6.  
Slowly, so very slowly, John started to feel the fight for life seeping back into his bones.  
He spent the first half day cleaning out the shelves in the kitchen, hovering, finishing up little chores. 

The rest of the afternoon and evening he would sit in the chair in the living room, staring out the window as his mind battled with ideas about escape, murder, suicide, revolution.

He needed to get out.  
He could not get out.

But there had to be a way.  
For his own sanity he had to find one.

 

Sherlock Holmes returned the way he had left.  
All of the sudden the door opened and he stood in the entrance, clear eyes scanning the room silently, latching onto John sitting paralyzed in the chair holding a book for a moment, then wandered on. 

There was no sound for about 10 seconds in which John tried to collect his thoughts before he stood, his hands kneading into each other, trying to avoid the lingering gaze of the taller man above him.

But Sherlock just nodded at him and went upstairs, and within minutes John could hear the shower start in the bathroom.


	16. The visit

It was weird having Sherlock back in the flat.  
John had steeled himself for everything and nothing, being beaten, being taken, being reprimanded for his job one way or another.

Somehow he had not expected Sherlock just to ignore him.  
Never crossed his mind.  
But there it was. 

One day John had been alone and then, all of the sudden the vampire was back, checking his blood supply in the fridge, calling in for more stock and then he was back in his corner in the kitchen, making notes, focusing once again on the microscope that John had cleaned only very sparingly. 

So to make sure that Sherlock would not have a reason to give him any kind of trouble the doctor went to his own room which was still a painful mess and started dusting and moving furniture, always leaving the door open, ready to hear if he was called for. 

Somehow he felt safer being as far away from the vampire as the small flat allowed him to.

 

In the evening, after John had stayed away from the kitchen as long as possible, he had reluctantly gone to prepare himself some dinner. The moment he stepped into the dimly lit room Sherlock had looked up with a sharp glance, but settled within one second when he saw who had walked in.   
For a moment it had seemed as if he had forgotten about his bound servant.

John walked to the fridge pulling out his ingredients for supper, realizing that he should be ordering more food soon when the husky voice of the vampire came from the corner.

“Watson, for the next two days you will eat a diet based solely on fruit and vegetables, starting now if possible.”

John had tensed at the voice, waiting for something else, an explanation, anything. 

But that was it.   
Nothing else.   
What the fuck?

“Sir?”  
The doctor had turned slowly, eyes wandering reluctantly to the hunched form in the dark corner. 

Sherlock continued without looking up from his microscope: “We will have Mistress Adler over for a tasting, and I wish your blood to be free from any influences like protein or carbohydrates. I want you to stick to produce with high water parts and low taste profile, so cucumbers, tomatoes, broccoli, spinach, apples, lettuce…. ah yes, berries are also acceptable. Stay away from onion, asparagus, garlic, I am sure you get my meaning.”

John’s mind was going in circles.  
Tasting.  
Irene Adler.  
Of course, Sherlock would not forget the promise he had made to his mistress.   
Fuck.

John had pushed the event as far into the back of his mind as he could, and for some reason he had hoped that Sherlock would somehow….forget about it. 

The vampire continued, ignoring that John had lost all colour in his face: “Also, do order yourself some lint seed and an enema kit. There is a good little online shop that specializes in donor needs; you can get the blood cleansing as well as general diet essentials there.”

John felt his tongue like a heavy lump of flesh in his mouth; he could hear his heart pounding in his temples.   
Enema.   
Right. 

“Mistress Adler will be visiting in two days’ time at night fall, it would be best order the supplements tonight. Then you can rest for the evening. I have no further need for you today.”

And once again, John felt himself staring at the back of the slender vampire, supressing the inkling of the panic attack that was crawling under his skin.

But he did as he was told.   
Of course he did.   
Because he was a good slave after all.  
More and more John learned to hate himself as much as he did as the vampire had ordered him. 

 

The next two days John tried to ignore his bad mood and grumbling stomach, happy that Sherlock had no interest in him whatsoever, leaving his bound-servant to clean where and what he thought. 

Two days can last a very long time, and John found himself pacing the floors, looking with distaste when the enema kit had arrived together with the foods and vegetables, storing the offending item in one of the bathroom drawers, hoping to put it out of sight, out of mind.

It did not work.

His head kept coming back to the small pack containing the plastic enema bag, tubing and clamps, packaged sterile in see-through plastic, reminding him of what was to come.

 

In the morning Sherlock had acknowledged him briefly while John munched on an apple, the vampire mumbling under his breath:  
“Watson, you should best prepare yourself with the enema around noon. I will be out of the house, back around 6 pm. Understood?”  
John nodded, biting his lip, eyes glued to the floor.   
He was sure that the hatred for the vampire burned brightly enough for anyone to see, so he thought it would be best not to look him straight into the eyes.

 

Sherlock left him alone once more, and when John finally made his way up to the bathroom at around 12:30, he realized that he sat and stared at the enema kit for almost 15 min before he could force himself to rip open the sturdy plastic bag.

Lying on his back on the floor next to the toilet, forcing the luke-warm lemon water into his body, massaging his belly, it was hard not to be disgusted in himself. 

 

Sherlock returned by 5:45 pm and John immediately noticed that the vampire was moving faster and more abruptly than he had the past two days, eyes shining brightly in his pale, thin face.   
He ripped off his coat, hand pushing through errand curls as he barked his orders without looking at his bound-servant:

“Watson, up to the bedroom, take of your clothes, wait for me there.”  
All of the sudden he stood next to John, hand squeezing the man’s arm hard, the voice a low growl.   
”Just to be sure, I will not allow any kind of misdemeanour tonight. I realize that this evening will be going against you being content with your situation, but now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. Tonight I will make sure that Mistress Adler is satisfied, and that you will comply with her wishes.”  
John tensed, feeling like an animal that had been pushed into a tight corner, and that he would need to bolt any moment.   
The eyes of Sherlock glared at him like hard, shiny marbles: “If it helps in any way, you can see it as the still outstanding punishment you have yet to receive for attacking me. If everything goes well, I will leave it at that. Understood?”

The fingers dug even harder into the soft flesh of the man’s arm, and finally John lifted his face, eyes sparkling with supressed anger:  
“Yes Sir.”

 

John did as he was told.   
He walked up the stairs, legs as heavy as stones and took of his clothes in the bathroom, using the restroom one more time before he made it to Sherlock’s bedroom, pacing the floor naked until the vampire finally walked in. 

 

Sherlock had always got a kick out being in control, and he had enjoyed the flinch when he touched Watson, how the man tensed when he asked him to the bedroom and to wait for him there.   
He realized how hard it was for the man, just as hard as it had always been for him when Mistress Irene had told him to wait naked in her bedroom, but he loved tasting the sweet taste of power on his tongue.  
By the time he reached the room, John was on his feet, pacing by the window instead of kneeling on the floor as Sherlock had expected, but he decided to allow his bound-servant this small misdemeanour.   
“On the bed, Watson.”  
He watched under hooded eyes as John stilled, then stiffly climbed on the large King-sized bed, the taste of anger and fear sharp in the air. Sherlock hid his grin and slowly walked over the chest under the window, once more pulling out manacles and heavy rope and chains. 

He knew John was watching him closely, and he revelled in the feeling of power as he slowly stood and brought all the implements he had chosen to the bed, placing them on the once luxurious but now slightly worn, old-fashioned duvet where his slave sat straight in the corner.   
Without talking Sherlock lifted John’s arms and attached the manacles, first around his wrists and then around his legs, carefully testing the tightness of the bindings as he pulled them close.   
“Lay back.”  
John flushed red, but did as he was told. He realized the position he was in, and while he slowly settled himself down, he kept repeating the same mantra in his head.  
“I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.”

With quick, sure motions Sherlock fastened John’s hand above his head, attaching thin chains to the rings in the thick wood of the headboard, and then John felt himself stretched as constraints on his feet were pulled down and fastened to rings on the floor

John gnawed on his lip and stared straight at the ceiling, his mind racing with the scenarios to come, but soon gave up as the anxiety and panic crept up his spine, his breathing quick and shallow.   
Mycroft’s word’s kept echoing in his head.   
“Submit, fully, without question, even if the commands seem humiliating.”  
If there was a time and place to follow this advice, surely it was now.

John hissed through his clenched teeth as Sherlock pinched his nipple cruelly once he was fully tied down, his hands fisting above the shackles.  
Sherlock’s voice, however, was still cool and collected:  
“I have decided to restrain you to make this evening easier on you. I am not interested in hearing any comments about your behaviour and my training methods tonight; see this as a necessary evil. Remember your outstanding punishment if it helps at all.”

John had tensed and bit his lips hard enough to draw blood, flinching at the sharp intake of breath somewhere above him. There was a rush of air and then the bed around his upper body dipped in suddenly as the vampire was leaning in close, cold breath washing over John’s features as Sherlock’s eyes rolled in the back of his head, a low groan coming from his mouth.   
Then a cold tongue swept along John’s lips, teasing the bleeding wound further open and then Sherlock leaned in and sucked hard on the wound, drawing a low keen from John, who tried to hold himself back from following his instinct and biting Sherlock as hard as he could. 

Not a good idea.  
No.  
Don’t.

Then Sherlock was gone, and less than a second later a rather large knot of soft fabric was forced into John’s mouth and quickly fastened on the back of his head.

Sherlock’s eyes burned bright in his pale face, and with no sound he was gone, leaving John Watson naked, bound and gagged on his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, I know, god-damn cliff hangers, but I am only half way done with the smutty smut smut as I am currently with my parents, and you won't believe how hard it is to write sex scenes when your dad sits across you at the table.....


	17. The Woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I am sorry for the long silence. As you know, I have deleted three chapters due to some negative / constructive criticism a couple of weeks ago.  
> And I have literally been staring at the screen, chewing my lips, trying to rewrite. 
> 
> It did not work. 
> 
> So I think you are going to have to work with me and let me continue on my story the way my head has planned it out. Unfortunately, when the storyline is lodged in my head, I seemingly cannot change it.   
> So yeah. 
> 
>  
> 
> One more thing.   
> Irene is THE mistress. The maker of the Mycroft and Sherlock. She is pure power, born about 700 BC, she has reigned over Sherlock for a very….VERY long time. I hope this explains some of Sherlock’s behaviour in the upcoming chapters, no worries, it should all make sense it in the end. 
> 
> More or less, here is the same chapter again I posted about a month ago.  
> For my mind is a fickle plaything. (Hehehehe)  
> That’s what you get when you put up with my strange little brain.   
> But be happy. YOU don’t have to live with it.   
> I DO!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Also unbetad.   
> Don’t get me wrong, I received several people saying they would love to beta (THANK YOU!)…but I am in and out of dark places myself, and can’t keep communication up with my friends at this point in time.   
> So yeah….unbetad it is. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

Irene sat in the corner of Sherlock’s bedroom, her eyes partially closed while her lips were slightly open, sharp fangs digging into the soft flesh of her mouth as she watched Sherlock lean over John.

She had arrived about 90 minutes after the doctor had been bound down to the bed, kissing Sherlock lightly before he took her coat, directing her straight to his bedroom.  
Irene knew that her former lover had never been one for foreplay, and she smiled cruelly as she saw the slave bound down to the bed, his eyes sparking angrily as he saw her stepping into the room, her hand on his masters hip. 

She had sat on a small chair in the corner, crossing her legs slowly as her Sherlock shrugged off his jacket, dropping it carelessly onto the floor. The Mistress watched closely as he lowered himself onto the bed, his body lithe and fluid like a cat, the hunger burning brightly in his eyes.   
Irene had seen in his face that he had not fed in days, maybe even longer, his features fallen in, too pale for his own good, light-grey eyes burning bright with hunger. 

She knew that tonight was as much for him as it was for her.   
Irene knew that she would enjoy it.   
She always did when Sherlock lost control. 

Her eyes narrowed as he bent lower, fully dressed, over his naked bound slave, leaning into the golden skin and pulling large, audible sniffs through his nostrils, greedily smelling his donor, savouring him before they would begin.  
A warm, steady pulse had formed in Irene’s lower body, her clit throbbing against the mesh panties she was wearing, rubbing her slightly, almost painfully, when she moved.   
She could smell Sherlock’s warm scent of arousal and craving for blood, sunlight and strong cinnamon that wafted along with the musk that was so clearly part of him.   
She was still surprised, after all these years, that he was cold to the touch when they fucked.

Sherlock hovered over John, now on all fours on his bed, lowering himself over the bound man without touching him, his hands on both sides of the shivering body as he kept his nose about 1 cm above the skin, careful not touch it, just to map the aroma profile of the doctor.  
He started scenting his slave at the midriff where a person’s fragrance was usually the blandest when compared to feet, armpits, mouth, hair and of course groin area.  
He could smell the bitter aroma of fear mixed with panic and anger in John Watson, this becoming an almost familiar smell, promising the taste of a man fed on a good diet without any poison in his system apart from his own emotions. 

Sherlock always loved to start with a clean plate. 

John was writhing in his bounds, goose bumps pebbling his flesh, less from the cold than from the chill that came from within.  
Sherlock had secured him tightly, wrists encircled by the brass manacles he had worn before, the inside soft with well-worn leather, but snug enough that he could not wind himself out of them, no matter how hard he tried. 

John wished he could at least pull his knees up to his chest, to cover his modesty as the vampire inched closer towards his shoulders, knowing that this evening would hold humiliation and rape in store for him, wishing he could be anywhere else in the world but here.   
He was almost happy for the gag for he was not sure if he would be able to keep quiet at this point.   
John could smell the goddamn sex in the room, like an electric current sparking between Irene and Sherlock, and somehow he was caught in the middle of it.   
Last place he wanted to be.  
Yup.   
Definitely.

He realized that this was a very well-played game between the two vampires, their movements like a well-rehearsed play, the way that the mistress smiled indulgently as she was watching the younger vampire move on top of him, not in a hurry, smelling and now also tasting John, cold tongue rasping over his heated flesh.

“Sherlock. The scarf.”

Irene’s voice was a seductive purr, but it held a sharp, commanding edge. 

Sherlock did not stop in his mapping, staying above John’s nipple for another full minute, circling the tender flesh with his tongue, feeling the silkiness of the skin harden and pebble under him, John fighting down the lightning bolts of sensations that arched his back. 

Sherlock finally straightened, pulling a black, silk scarf from the breast pocket of his tailored shirt, and before John knew what was happening it was slid over his eyes, the soft material pulled into a hard knot next to his head, leaving him in darkness.  
The doctor’s breath hitched as he was deprived of the sense that could at least tell him where the vampires were and perhaps read what was going to happen next.   
In a short burst of panic John tried pulling in his arms and legs, struggling against the bindings, strong jerks that left the chains clanging against each other.

“Shhhhhh…..”

John shivered as he heard Sherlock’s voice right next his ear, jerking at the proximity of the sound, then a hand was on his cheek, light as a feather and cold as ice, slowly stroking along his skin from the mouth down his vulnerable throat.  
Without fail the vampire calmly returned to the chest of his bound slave, savouring the armpits with their newly added scent of panic, and finally, avoiding the heavy smell of the metal on John’s throat, he nuzzled right under the doctors chin where the carotid artery was pumping close under the skin, groaning under his breath as he could feel the rapid pounding heart of John Watson under his tongue. 

“Bite him.”

The command was sharp and clear, and Sherlock immediately acted on the breathless order and dug his teeth into the bound man’s flesh.  
John’s spine lifted of the mattress at the initial pain of the bite, then the warm wash of hot pleasure mixed with relaxation cursed through his veins, much more subtle this time and his limps eased into the softness beneath him. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, drinking a few large mouthfuls of the salty heat before he forced himself to close the wound and lean back, savouring the divine taste of his servant on his tongue, his cock swelling with the distinct aroma of his bound servant and the headiness of finally having blood in his system once more. 

He should really stop starving himself when he was stressed. 

The bed behind him dipped ever so slightly, and then cold hands circled around his chest, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, and Sherlock hesitated a moment before he allowed himself to lean back into the touch.   
Irene’s cold mouth nuzzled under his mandible, tongue flicking where she used to bite him, and with an impatient tug his shirt was ripped open, leaving his white, hairless chest bare to her wandering fingers.   
Sherlock could see his gagged, blinded slave writhing before him, now also sporting a sizeable erection, and he groaned once more as Irene pinched his nipples sharply, as usual mixing his pleasure with pain, just as she had always done. 

Over the centuries he had learned to crave it.  
He used to not have a choice.   
Now the mistress held power over him that he could not deny. 

With a sharp tug Irene motioned him to turn towards her, and he did as he was told.   
“Lay back.” Her words were whispered softly, and Sherlock sunk back into the softness of the duvet, right at the feet of John Watson, his long legs dangling from the edge and touching the floor as she slowly straddled him, licking her blood-red lips. 

She loved the power she had over him. Always had.   
But it had taken oh so much time and so many tears….

 

For a moment Sherlock had flashbacks of himself over the years, from boy to young vampire when he had been in the same position under this strong woman who now leaned into him, mouldable like putty under her knowledgeable fingers, in the beginning beaten into submission but after so many years, so many _centuries_ ….learning to cope had always been one of Sherlock’s strong points. 

He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he had grown up different.   
Not in the hands of the mistress but free. 

No matter. 

Sherlock forced his mind to snap back to the present, to Irene Adler straddling him, caressing him. 

The mistress leaned forward, her body still wrapped in the black tight dress, her hands running over his cheeks as her mouth hovered over his. The younger vampire let his hands glide along her lean frame, her body well known to him as his fingers followed her soft curves and hard hipbones, and then trailed down along the silkiness of her dress until he reached the hemline.   
He stared into her brown eyes for a moment, not moving; then without a warning he pulled her dress up, the silky material ripping with a satisfying sound as he exposed her black, see-through panties, her breath hitching in surprise at his aggressive, dominant behaviour. 

Oh, her little boy had grown up too fast.  
He had earned his wings. 

Irene groaned softly and pressed herself into Sherlock’s still fully clothed erection, slowly rubbing her vulva along the hard length, intensifying the needy pounding within her vagina.   
She leaned closer and then they kissed, softly, no hands or other parts of them touching apart from their clothed genitals and the cold wetness of their mouths, Irene tasting the rich blood of the donor mixed with the heady taste that was so very Sherlock on his tongue.   
The mistress moved fluently, like a cat on top of the younger vampire, her thighs closing around his lean body as she pressed her heavy breasts against him, her hands still next to his head, drinking in the sharp gasps that came from his open mouth.  
Sherlock gripped Irene’s hips and held her steady, pushing up as he pulled her down, grinding his erection even harder into her crotch, both groaning under their breath. 

“I want to watch you fuck him.”

Irene’s voice was low and rumbling as she leaned close to his ear, her voice raspy and low as her fingers trailed down between them, finding his erection and palming it with obvious pleasure.   
Sherlock grunted in agreement, a sharp jolt of pleasure cursing through his veins making his constraint cock bop in his pants, drawing a low hiss from his throat. 

“Of course, Mistress.” His voice was dark, low and husky, just like he knew she liked it. “Would you like to try him first?”

Irene sat back, once more grinding her pelvis into Sherlock’s erection, her pussy slowly seeping juices into her panties. 

“Why yes, my dear, that would be splendid….”

“He is very sensitive to any kind of pleasure proteins….he has overreacted before. You might not want to add much more to his system for now.”  
Irene’s eyes scanned Sherlock’s face for a moment, slightly taken aback by his comment. The younger vampire had not normally expressed concern or made suggestions on her feeding habits, and even though this one was subtle she did notice it.

All grown up.  
Right. 

“Yes Sir.” Her voice had a tinge of irony in it as she pushed herself off his lap leaning forwards with her hands on his chest, pulling her slender legs from him, gliding a foot teasingly along his erection for a moment. She grinned at his low hiss, lowering herself onto all fours like a cat, crawling over to the naked slave, her ass pushing high into the air as she nuzzled his throat above the collar.   
She knew what she looked like.  
And she enjoyed the knowledge that Sherlock was watching her. 

Her lips trailed along John’s neck above the collar, and the strong smell of arousal and human warmth distracted her thoughts from her former apprentice.  
“Good God Sherlock, he smells divine. It is almost criminal to keep him for yourself.”

Irene heard a low intake of breath behind her and smiled into the warm flesh beneath he lips, licking and sucking her way along the slave’s hot skin, tasting the wonderful aroma before locating and nuzzling at the spot she was going to bite.   
The bound servant writhed in his constraints, hands fisted in his bindings, his cock erect and dripping as he made low keening sounds behind his gag. She teased him some more, fingers sliding over his naked skin down to his erection, gripping it hard, using the exact moment to sink her teeth into the pounding vein under his chin.  
The doctors back arched off the mattress once more, a loud groan ripped from his mouth as she drank deeply and slowly, her fingers pumping his erection slowly while the other dug into his ash-blond hair, bending his head back as far as the collar would allow it. 

Irene restrained herself and also took only few mouthfuls, aware that the evening would last a long while and that Sherlock wanted to keep this one as healthy as possible. She added a little more of pleasure into the blood stream of the moaning slave, lapping up the surge of rich chocolate and apricot that was a strong part of his aroma. 

Sated, she leaned back and stretched as the hot blood cursed her veins, hungrily lapping up the small trail of blood that had escaped her mouth.  
“Dear God Sherlock, what a treasure you found yourself. I am almost jealous!”  
She could hear her discipline approaching her from behind and then his hands circled her waist as Sherlock pushed his face into her hair, smelling her, nuzzling her neck as his erection ground into her ass. 

The blood was a strong aphrodisiac, and Irene decided that, before she wanted to watch Sherlock take John, she would need to take her ex-lover herself.   
Her eyes were dark with lust as she turned, smiling gently at the tall man behind her, and with a quick gesture she gripped his cock through his trousers, squeezing gently, pulling another hiss through his teeth.   
“Take off your clothes and lay down again”. Her voice was almost a whisper, but Sherlock understood, bent down to lap at the fine trail of now hardening blood that still stuck to her chin before he slowly opened his trousers and pulled them off together with his pants. 

He knew to help Irene out of her dress, pulling it carefully over her hair, revealing the curvy body beneath the soft material, only clad in the pair of mesh panties and nothing else. Instead of laying back he stole a deep kiss, gripping the mesh panties with both hands, ripping them off her body in a dominant gesture that Irene Adler was neither used to nor too fond of.

She growled and slapped him hard enough for his head to jerk to the side, his cock hardening even further at the punishment, then she pushed him back down, her hands pressing hard into his throat. 

“I don’t think I gave you the permission to touch me, _Sherlock_. Now, do as I commanded and STAY DOWN.”

The younger vampire grinned but leaned back, pale body shining in the light of the dimly lit room, as he slowly stroked his erect cock, his eyes never leaving the face of his mistress. 

“Good boy.”

Irene turned once more towards the bound servant who was struggling in his bindings, his cock painfully hard, moving his hips to get any kind of friction or satisfaction to his neglected genitals, but to no avail.   
She crawled towards him, grabbing John’s cock in her hand once more, pulling a gasp from the slave as she slowly started to stroke him, lapping at the pumping vein right next to his groin, feeling the amounts of precome bubble over her fingers. She bit him quickly, pulling in the musk together with the rich blood, the taste of sexual need and arousal adding a sharp tang of cinnamon to the salty warmth. 

She pulled back when she felt slickness dripping from her pussy, keeping some of the warm blood in her mouth, pushing it out lazily with her tongue to allow it to run down from her chin to her chest, along her breast and down her belly.   
If Sherlock was a good boy she would later allow him to lap it off. 

The mistress turned to the young vampire, who had stayed on his back watching her as he had been instructed, waiting for her to straddle him. 

He knew the game well enough by now.

Irene climbed on top of Sherlock, digging her fingers into the lavish curls, opening her mouth to allow the still-warm blood trickle onto his tongue while pressing herself against him, her body slippery with blood and sweat, sliding along his height easily.

She grinned as she studied his wide-blown pupils, need and hunger shimmering in them as Sherlock struggled not to move, his hands fisting into the soft duvet beneath him, his erection sliding against the wet folds of her vulva, teasing her clit. 

Her gaze never left his as she got hold of his straining cock and guided herself above it, inserting the tip of the head into her opening, circling her hips slowly as she dipped down a little, allowing the cock to enter ever so slightly before pulling back, Sherlock grinding his teeth so no sound would escape.  
She spread herself on top of the muscular, pale body that belonged to her apprentice, up to allow Sherlock access to her throat that was still covered in blood trails, digging her hand into the mop of unruly curls as she pushed his mouth into her blood-covered neck, moaning as he latched on to the taste of his donor greedily. Sherlock lapped at the blood, nuzzling and sucking at her neck as his breath hitched under her knowledgeable fingers. 

Finally she had enough and slowly sank down, the hard length of his cock sliding into her, her vagina gripping his erection hard like a fist until she sat flush on the wiry nest of dark curls.  
They both groaned at the sensation, and then Irene’s hands dug into his chest as she slowly undulated her hips to feel his hard length deep within her, sending lustful shivers up her spine.  
She rocked her body in a slow rhythm, pulling herself off then pushing down all the way again and again, and she could see Sherlock’s muscles straining in his arms as he held himself from fucking up into her.   
He moaned low under his breath as she stopped and teased him with a little rotation of her hips, pulling off and pushing back down in a punishingly slow movements.   
Finally she lifted her body off his, sitting up straight to ride him, his slender cock sliding all the way out of her wetness as she moved in a steady rise and fall, up and down, again and again, the only sound in the room the rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh.   
Irene knew the angle to stimulate her G-spot, and she made sure to let Sherlock’s cock rub into it with every push, the sensation climbing hot up her spine.

She could see Sherlock fall apart, his hands twitching at the sheets with her slow movements, and finally he raised his hips to meet hers. 

That was all she needed. 

She slammed herself down, adopting brutal speed, Sherlock’s hands flying up to her waist to steady himself and both of them revelled as she fucked herself brutally on his painfully hard cock, Sherlock using one of his hands to search and find Irene’s clit, pinching it and then circling it hard and fast, steading her with his other arm.

Sherlock used to fuck the way he solved his cases – Logical and without emotions, focused on the result of providing preferably both parties with at least one orgasm.  
But Irene had been his mistress for a long while, and she had slowly groomed him to enjoy the uselessness of an intercourse for pleasure only, the slow build-up to a climax while training him to appreciate the submissiveness she thrusted on him.   
The Woman was a master in combining pain and pleasure, and slowly had taught her lover that one without the other was hardly worth his time. 

Irene continued to fuck down hard and fast, the tall vampire cringing under her, as she bent down to bite hard into the pale crock of his neck, no drinking or injection to ease the hurt, just for the sake to heighten his pleasure with searing hot pain.   
This was when Sherlock knew she wanted to hear his voice and he groaned at the hurt, sound rough and deep, pushing his body into her as he whined for her to stop.

She held the bite for a couple of seconds, listening to his ever increasing pleading that finally sounded sincere, then she let go and slowed down, hips rolling sensually as she covered his face with butterfly kisses.  
Within the blink of an eye she pulled his head back once more, fingers digging into long curls, nuzzling his cold skin white threatening another bite, feeling him tense under her fingers and within her, but then just running her lips sensually along his alabaster neck. 

The fear of further pain was enough, and Irene sat up once more and steadied herself on his shoulders, her clit rubbing in a steady pulse over the wiry curls around his cock, her G-spot now fat and sensitive with the hot blood of the donor. She closed her eyes as she lowered her head and rode herself hard into his erection, the hot slide in and out of her a pleasure she had given up for way too long, his pale body writhing beneath as she dug her fingers into his skin, breaking it. Irene came with a hiss, her first orgasm of the night, a low steady ebb within her that shook her on top of Sherlock as she clenched down on his cock, stilling her fast needy pounding, pleasure pulsing between her thighs. 

Sherlock could feel the vagina of the woman pulse around his erection and he froze, holding on why she took her pleasure, knowing it was not yet time for his. 

The mistress was always the first to orgasm. 

The rest would play itself out over the night. 

Then she stopped, her hips and legs still shivering uncontrollably underlined by her soft gasps until she finally stilled, breathing fast. Sherlock suppressed his urge to move, cock still painfully hard as the clutch around him eased, once more holding on to the duvet to keep himself from moving.  
Irene gave another teasing swirl with her hips, shuddering in the aftershock, then she pulled off slowly, a low moan escaping Sherlock’s lips as he lost the cold, slippery tightness around his cock.


	18. The Mistress, Sherlock and John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure porn. 
> 
> Yay.
> 
>  
> 
> x

Irene stretched like a cat, smiling lazily from her post-orgasmic bliss, staring at her lover whose eyes flicked hungrily from his bound servant to her and back. 

She leaned over, stroking his erection almost thoughtless, then turned slowly towards John Watson once more, lowering her upper body into the mattress between John’s legs, her ass high in the air. She nuzzled at a pounding vein in the bound man’s crotch, the slave whining and straining beneath her, pulling at his restraints as he tried to get more bodily contact on his touch-starved skin.   
Irene turned her head and smiled cruelly, her cat-eyes narrowing at her lover.  
Sherlock had been through a similar routine many times before, and he knew the invite for what it was.   
His cock bopped against his stomach in anticipation.  
Moving fast he climbed up behind the mistress, hands stroking appreciably over the round, soft mounds of her ass, guiding his cock between her legs, sinking into her with a slow, continuous motion as she bit John once more.  
Sherlock curled himself around The Woman, his hips pumping slowly as his hands reached around her body to cup her breasts, his fingers pinching her nipples as the mistress bucked up under him, pressing herself back at him with obvious need.

“God damn, fuck me, Sherlock!”

The command came in a dangerously low hissing voice and Sherlock did his very best, picking up speed, pounding into her brutally while pressing Irene’s face into Watsons crotch where the blood was still running in a crimson red on his pale golden thighs.   
It was a rare occasion that he could take over with The Woman, and he took full advantage, sliding his cock all the way out before fucking it back in, hard and fast, growling under his breath as he heard the low whine from the mistress beneath him.   
He curled over her, one hand pulling her head back by her long hair, the other searching for her clit, pinching it cruelly when he found it, savouring the sharp gasp from his mistress.  
He bit into her neck, much more carefully than she had earlier, an old instinct to hold on to his partner as he rode her, pushing her into his bound slave crotch, Irene’s hands now against John’s thighs to steady herself against the assault from Sherlock’s hard hips hammering against her ass.

“Yes……FUCK ME!”

Irene lowered her upper body all the way down she gasped as Sherlock’s fingers moved faster and faster on her pleasure, rubbing in small, hard circles just to then pinch her clit cruelly, combining the pain with the pleasure just as he knew how to, how he had learned from the very best.   
The mistresses breath went faster and faster as she became rigid under the steady pounding, still sensitive from her first orgasm and in the combination with the blood and now Sherlock’s fingers on her clit, her legs started to spasm with a second, stronger orgasm, fingers digging into John’s thighs as she started to scream, Sherlock holding her hips tight to pull her back to him, cock pounding again and again against her G-Spot that was pulsing hot against his cock. She clutched his erection tight, pulling him into her further and finally Sherlock slowed, enjoying the hard grip around his sensitive erection while thinking of dead puppies, his hips slowing in a shallow rhythm as she shivered and moaned under him.

Finally, when Irene collapsed, covered in sweat and blood, breathing shallowly while her thighs still spasmed uncontrollably, did Sherlock fuck into her hard a couple of times more, her moans stifled by the covers, before he pulled out.   
The Woman was lying on her stomach, positively debauched and beautiful she shivered through the aftermath, stretching like a cat as she smiled, half lidded, up at Sherlock.

“Now you may take him.”

Sherlock grinned.   
It was his turn.

 

Sherlock did not wait any longer, he barely looked at John Watson who was still tied down by his hands and feet, gag in his mouth glistening with spit, soft silk scarf over his eyes.   
With quick movements he detached the chains starting at the ankles, allowing the silver bindings to snake off the bed with a low clattering sound before moving on to his hands, snapping the hooks open with a quick twist.   
John, who has been floating on a cloud of sexual unfulfilled Need, jumped when he felt fingers on him once more, the sensation almost too much for his hot, over-sensitive skin.  
He groaned as Sherlock picked him up as if he weighed nothing, and the vampire twisted himself to sit behind the man, stabilizing his chest, pulling him back to lean against his master.   
John shivered as he realized that his hands were free, one of them flying straight down to his cock, moaning at the spikes of pleasure that rolled through him once he touched himself. 

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard and with quick fingers opened the gag, pulling it from Watson’s mouth and throwing it across the room, not caring where it would land. When he saw his donor touching himself, he secured both his wrists with his hands, pulling him back on top of him, his cold lips playing with the pink shells of man’s ear. 

“None of that now, Watson, or do you want me to restrain you once more?”

John did not answer, instead a low moan escaped his lips as Sherlock let go of one of his wrists and placed his own fingers on his chest, pulling him closer against his own cold, smooth skin, a stark contrast to the almost feverish heat of the donor. His hand inched down to grab the cock of the writhing man, while his other dug into the ash-blond hair and pulled his head back, resting it on his shoulder.   
“Now Watson, I want you to prepare yourself, open your pretty little arse for me, can you do that?”

John stilled, but when Sherlock stroked down along his cock with a slow, sensual motion, he keened and whispered: “Yes sir, god, yes, please, sir.”

Sherlock grinned wolfishly and let go of his slave’s head for a moment, reaching for a small bottle of lube that he had pushed between the mattress and headboard, within easy reach. 

“Give me your hand, Watson.”

John hesitated for a moment, shivering at the over-stimulation as Sherlock continued to stroke his cock, up and down in a slow motion, and finally lifted both hands of the mattress, stretching them in front of himself. 

Irene let out a low laugh.

Sherlock grunted and let go of John’s head, popped open the lube bottle with one hand and poured a generous amount of lube onto both of John’s hands.   
“Now, there you go, now prepare yourself, hurry.”

Sherlock underlined the sentence with a sharp stroke down John’s cock, then he slathered some more lube onto his own fingers to allow the rough glide of his hand along his slave’s erection to slide easier.   
John twisted himself and Sherlock let go as the man pulled his knees underneath himself, rising up onto them while remaining in contact with Sherlock’s chest, still pressing back into his master. He leant to the side, searching frantically for his own hole and with a low sigh and an arch of his back he pushed into himself. 

Irene’s breath hitched as she leaned in closer, her fingers wandering over the expanse of golden skin on John’s chest.   
“He is beautiful, Sherlock. So willing to please!”

Sherlock grunted as possessiveness flooded through him and he pulled his donor’s head back once more against his shoulder, arching his back even more, pumping the man’s cock in a low, teasing rhythm that matched the one of John pushing into himself. 

“I think you can take a second finger.”  
His voice was low and hoarse as his own cock painfully twitched at the sight of the man’s struggles to open himself, keening low at the sensations, now Irene’s fingers also exploring his body, twisting his nipples, lapping at some dried blood that stuck to his chest.   
“I’m going to….going to….”  
John Watson’s voice hitched as Sherlock felt him struggling underneath him, and with a quick motion Irene had grabbed the base of John Watsons cock and balls, pressing them tightly, pulling a startled groan from the man. 

“None of that now, sweetheart. You are not allowed yet. Your master shall come first.”

With quick hands Irene pulled a long, silken band that had held her hair in place, allowing her black curls to cascade over her shoulders, and with quick motions that spoke of years of practice she wound it around the base of his cock and balls, tight enough to keep the slave from ejaculating, but not so tight that he would be in pain.   
John gasped and cringed forward at the sensation, his fingers forgotten and Sherlock’s hand that had previously toyed with his erection now went down to his fingers in his ass, giving the hand a gentle push to remind his donor what he was to do. 

“Please….please, I can’t…” Watson was now whining and Sherlock snorted in something like annoyance, pulling the fingers from his hole with a soft, squelching noise, pushing his own, dry fingers at the wet entrance. 

“Breathe Watson.”

John had stiffened, his own hands searching for his own erection once more, and with a glance and a nod Irene quickly attached the restrains back to John’s hands on both sides of Sherlock’s body, the chains pulling his arms back to this side, keeping him in place. 

Sherlock had pushed two fingers into the man, and even though he was thoroughly relaxed he was still new to this kind of sexual play, and his arse was tight around Sherlock’s fingers, swallowing him in, pressing them tightly against each other. 

While Sherlock nuzzled the neck of his bound servant who pushed down into his fingers, shaking and mewling, his other hand holding the heated man close to himself, Irene had now kneeled in front of them, her one hand taken over stroking John’s bound cock, while her other playfully ran up and down his torso, pinching nipples here, stroking expanses of flesh there. 

Every now and then she would lean forward and press her naked breasts against the shivering man, to search for the cold lips of Sherlock who returned her kiss with passion, while he was pumping his fingers up and down in the slowly loosening hole of his slave. 

Finally he added a third finger, and John tried to wiggle away, but Irene held him steady, now licking up and down his neck where residues of blood were still sticking to his sweaty skin, and between the fingers in his arse, the hand on his cock and the two vampires sandwiching him, he was not sure how and where to escape. 

“He is ready”

Irene’s voice was soft and siren-like, and Sherlock flicked his eyes at her for an instant, and, just to spite her, gave John another couple of rough pushes that lifted the man up again and again.   
Then he withdrew his fingers and whispered into John Watsons ears: “Relax, Watson, you are going to enjoy this very much”  
John twisted into the sound, searching for mouth that was talking to him, still blinded by the scarf over his eyes, then he was lifted by strong hands and Sherlock aligned his cock at his entrance, pushing up into his donor’s heat.   
He pushed through the first ring of muscles without much resistance, and then John arched back into him, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and Sherlock leaned in, stroking the man’s hair, steading him.  
“Just relax, John, be good for me, now push out and take me in, allow me to show you pleasure…”

Watson shivered under the fingers and twisted, skin glistening with sweat, his own mind slowly clearing, and while he knew that he wanted this, he….he….

Sherlock bit hard into the crock of his neck, injecting a load of pheromones while sucking the warm, heady blood his donor gifted to him while simultaneously pushing up into the tight heat, finally penetrating. The bite had wiped away any resistance the slave may have shown, and John positively melted into Sherlock’s arms as he slid deeper and deeper into his donor, forcing himself away from the neck, pupils once more blown wide in the need to fuck and feed. 

Finally John sat flush on the bed of wiry curls that belonged to Sherlock and he gasped, arms outstretched to the side held steadily by the chains attached to his wrists as Irene now bent down and lapped at his erection like a cat.   
“There we go, good boy” Sherlock positively crooned into the ear as his fingers now dug into Watson’s hips, slowly pushing up and pulling out again, lifting up the donor with hips while his cock slid out of the tight opening, holding the man up with his hands, groaning under his breath as the entrance of John Watson clenching around him hotly as the man keened in his arms, struggling in his restrains. 

Sherlock shushed him as he drew out as much as he could, then pushed back slowly once more, restraining the need the need to fuck hard into the pliable flesh surrounding him, allowing the man to adjust first.   
He would take him rough and hard when he thought he was ready for it.   
Sherlock rolled his hips, now rocking them slowly, in and out, flesh slapping against heated flesh, nibbling at his slave’s neck, controlling himself not to bite, not to drain, not to fuck until the man was a quivering mess under his fingers.

“Do you like this, John? Do you enjoy me fucking you?”

John caught his breath, again and again as Sherlock fucked into him at a now faster pace and drew back again, breath hitching, finally able to answer: “Yes Sir, yes, sir, oh god, please sir, yes sir…”

He continued babbling as Sherlock pushed his arse forward a little, shifting his entry angle until John gasped and shuddered violently, bending forward as if to get away and Sherlock knew he had found the precious spot that would send jolts of pleasure through him.   
Irene had watched his apprentice rut into his new slave, absentmindedly touching Watson’s cock, but mainly observing as her eyes were half-closed, calculating. 

“Sherlock….give him to me. I want to feel him” Her command was fast and sharp, and Sherlock’s startling blue eyes flew open, clearing as they fixed upon her. 

He pulled Watson back against his chest as he pulled him down deeply, nuzzling once more at the neck while staring at his mistress, flashing his teeth in a dangerous smile. 

“Hmmmmmm… Mistress, how would you like him?”

Irene leaned back, slowly sinking onto her back, her eyes still steadily on Sherlock’s.  
“I want him on top of me.”  
Sherlock nodded as he gave John a couple of harsh, brutal pushes, the man keening in a low voice on top of him before the vampire stilled. 

He watched Irene through slited eyes as she lay before the two men, then pulled out abruptly, John Watson whimpering at the loss of contact. 

Sherlock unhooked the man’s restrains once more with his unnatural speed and pushed him forward, Irene catching him in her arms as he fell. John nestled into her soft but demanding embrace, moaning at the cold skin against his heat, his hands wandering over the full breasts of the mistress.   
“Fuck me John” she whispered, her hands dug into his hair. 

He quickly found her entrance and aligned himself, and with a moan slid himself in, pushing himself into the vampire until he was fully seated within her. He shivered as The Woman groaned, wrapping her legs tightly around his hips, throwing her head back at the invasion.  
She was so cold.   
It was a strange sensation.  
Still, her cunt grabbed him like a vice and John could not hold himself back as he started to rut into the soft _female_ flesh beneath him. 

“Move” her voice was low and feral, and John groaned at the command, pulling her closer, his hips starting to pump at a frenzied rhythm, face pushed into her shoulder as he fucked. 

Irene dug her fingers into the slave’s, her lips curled into a smile, her pink tongue wandering over her lips as her eyes fluttered shut.  
Sherlock watched them for a short while, mesmerized, a low growl escaping him.  
Irene’s eyes flew open and fixed on the dark, hunched figure in the corner of the bed, and her voice was a low purr as she spoke softly: “Join us, Sherlock.”

And like a flash he was behind John Watson, pulling The Woman’s legs away from his hips as he pressed John down into her, fingers seeking his entrance, finding it wide and open, ignoring the gasped breath of the donor as he guided his erect cock back into the flesh, sinking in with a satisfied groan.  
John stiffened as his drug-meddled mind realized what his master was about to do, but it was too late to pull away, and then he was stretched open once more, the burning stretch and the slide arched his back, his fingers scrambling for hold as he panted at the sensation of being filled while still seated within the woman, utterly taken.  
“No….wait, I…” the words came out in a breathless gasp, and then Sherlock was fully seated, grinding his hips, pushing John deep into the cold fire of Irene’s womb, utterly claiming him.  
Irene growled and her hands flew up to steady themselves on Sherlock’s arms that had settled next her waist.

She smiled up at Sherlock, lust and hunger flickering in her dark eyes, pupils blown wide, and then Sherlock pulled back, pulling John with him, and then he started to fuck.   
His rhythm was once more hard and brutal, deep strokes that lifted John up and pushed him back into the mistress without mercy, dominating the speed and depth how his slave fucked The Woman underneath him, and Irene once more curled her legs around John, her feet resting on Sherlock’s smooth arse, pulling him deeper.   
John slumped down, his body rocking helplessly, the sensation overwhelming and the string around his cock holding back the orgasm that was so painfully close yet so very far. 

“Release him, Sherlock, please, I need him NOW!”

Sherlock pulled John back slightly, one hand curling around the heated flesh of his chest, the other finding the loose string that Irene had knotted around John’s genitals, giving it a rough tug that unravelled it, releasing him.   
The vampire fucked back into his donor, pressing him deep between Irene’s legs, and then John could feel two sets of teeth digging into his over-sensitive flesh, Irene into his neck above his collar, bending his head back sharply, Sherlock into his left shoulder blade.

He screamed as the orgasm ripped through him, the painpleasure of the bites, the cock in his arse sliding back and forth and his own prick simultaneously fucking in and out of the cold clenching tightness of The Woman and he shuddered, ejaculating harder than he had in years, his whole body convulsing at the experience. Sherlock’s fingers snaked over his mouth, clamping it shut as he could not hold back his cries and sped up even more, pounding into his prostate again and again, milking it for all it was worth.

And then John could feel the mistress clenching around him, throwing her head back, her mouth red and bloody as she gasped for breath, fingers digging hard into John’s back.

A couple of strokes later Sherlock came with a hiss, painting the insides of his slave with copious amounts of cold cum, riding himself slowly through the orgasm, lapping the blood trickling from the scratches that Irene’s fingers had left on Watson’s back. 

 

For a while nothing could be heard in the room apart from heavy breathing as Sherlock lay slumped over his slave, nuzzling at the neck over the bronze collar.  
He tried to keep his weight off Irene, then slowly pulled himself back with John held close to his chest, laying himself and John back into the pillows, his cock still buried deep within his donor, curling around him protectively.   
John stared at the ceiling, his whole body screaming with pleasure and satisfaction, and then his eyes drifted shut at the cottony warmth and the safety he felt being held by strong arms, and he drifted asleep.


	19. Ideas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then we got caught up to when I deleted everything. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

Irene was lying, baking in the aftermath of her orgasms, pondering the evening that resembled so much what life used to be like when Sherlock and she had made the world submit to them together.  
It had been a great, nostalgic evening, made so much better through the amazing pleasure donor that Sherlock had found for himself. 

Yup.   
It had definitely been worth her time.  
Sherlock always had had such exquisite taste. 

Her eyes were fixed on the younger vampire and his slave, the man he had curled around, who was sleeping, oblivious to the world, his chest rising and falling calmly.  
Irene saw Sherlock staring back at her, his eyes glittering in the dusk of the room, defiantly, as he pulled the donor closer to himself, as if to make a point to herself as well as to him. 

“You called him John.”

She did not care about keeping her voice low, knowing that the paces they just put the man through, he would not wake if the room was on fire and a marching band walked through.

Sherlock did not visibly react, but his hand wandered through John’s hair in a calm motion, stroking it evenly.  
“That’s his name.”

Irene snorted.   
“It normally takes you longer to start using their first names. With most you never did.”

“He will not remember.”

Irene rolled her eyes, grinning as she shifted herself, flopping her own body onto her stomach, pushing her hand under her chin, her legs folded into the air.  
She looked like a school girl at a sleepover.   
A very seductive, dangerous schoolgirl.   
“You actually like this one.”  
Her voice had an astounded quality to it, as if she could not believe it herself. 

Sherlock’s lower lip curled up, now looking like a sulky schoolboy in denial.  
He said nothing.

Irene’s eyes glittered.   
“Ohhhhhhhh….. Sherlock.”  
She pulled herself up, interest peaked, crossing her legs as she inched closer to be able to watch Sherlock’s reactions.   
He looked so…vulnerable.  
He had not allowed himself being vulnerable for a very, very long time.

Not since ….   
Well, not since Jim Moriarty. 

Some 400 or so years ago.  
Sherlock had sworn then to her – _never again_.   
And here he was. 

The two vampires stared at each other, Irene openly grinning at the discovery, Sherlock’s brows knitted together.

“I don’t wasn’t to talk about it.”

Irene’s eyes flew open.  
So unlike Sherlock.

Irene whispered the words, almost as if in awe.   
“You are…”

“NO!” The answer was immediate, sharp, clear.   
Loud.  
Sherlock had sat up straighter, the donor curling off slightly, whimpering in his sleep at the movements, not waking. 

 

Jim Moriarty.  
Pictures flashed through her mind.

She had been so proud of Sherlock after she had decided to turn him, as the young vampire learned his way in the new world that he was in, taking donors, being maybe a little too wild, a little too greedy tasting his way through them, a glutton with the world as his playground…until he had met Jim Moriarty.

She remembered how bored he had been, pacing the floors of her castle, driving her up the walls when Mycroft had come to her help and dragged his little blood brother along to into a war.  
The Nine Year War they called it, against the Celts in the North, the English laying claim for a king, fighting the barbarians to bring them the word of god.   
Mycroft had always been better in politics, and he knew that in battle no one would ask about one corpse more or less, allowing Sherlock to drink, to seek, to find.

It was where he earned himself his reputation.  
Blood hound.

He had first smelled and then seen Jim Moriarty on the battlefield, snow between dark trees, Sherlock standing on top of a mountain of corpses of the previous battle, his eyes wandering as he had seen him.  
Jim sat on a white steed, visible through oily clouds of smoke, eyes fixed on Sherlock.  
Hard.  
Calculating.  
Sherlock had hunted the proud Celtic warrior for miles, running after the horse in the wood, eyes fixed on the plaid and furs of the man as he rode hard to get away from the nightmare that was chasing him between the dark trees. 

He had put up a great fight. 

In the end Sherlock had held Jim Moriarty down, head in the snow as Jim cackled insanely, ripping into his throat.  
Pain donor.   
Rust and Saltwater and Thunderstorm.  
His taste was…exquisite.

No one had refused Sherlock the claim on the bound man, and he had left as soon as he could, Jim tied up on his own horse, cursing through his gag all the way back to England, back to Irene’s castle where Sherlock kept him in the dark, cold torture chambers. 

Irene remembered how lost Sherlock had been, how young he had seemed, not sure what to do with the chained up, dangerous man that did not stop fighting.  
She left him until he came and asked her to join him for his feeding sessions. 

Irene had given him all the guidance he had needed to work with his own donor, realizing how dangerous of a man Jim Moriarty really was, but not expecting for Sherlock to loose himself in the man so very completely.

Addict.  
Sherlock always had been. 

She remembers the advice she gave him:  
 _You are the master, you can let him do to you what YOU want, let him make YOU feel good.”_

It had been a mistake to suggest to him to submit to Jim Moriarty.   
Give in to mix his feeding with his own pain, submission and sex, to achieve nirvana by getting high on hot blood and his own pain he so craved, to loose himself in the ecstasy. 

She had not realized that Jim Moriarty would almost break him.   
Neither had Sherlock. 

She had watched Sherlock and Jim as her sub gave in to the huskily whispered commands, the short, pale man standing over Sherlock, still chained and collared himself while wielding a heavy cat-o-nine tails down onto the pale back of his master. 

Jim had revelled in giving pain, in taking out his anger on the young vampire, and Sherlock had allowed himself more and more to relish the sensations of the painpleasure he grew up to love.   
Jim sometimes forgot who the real master was and Sherlock would remind him by attacking the smaller man with a viciousness that belied his submissive behaviour, beating, starving, breaking the proud warrior into a million little pieces.

Finally Sherlock had all the control.

Jim was insane, but he knew that Sherlock’s strength and speed were highly superior to his own, and while he did what he was told, he was also happy enough to take the role of the master in their sick and twisted games. 

He cut, slashed and burned the pale white skin of the tall man, listening to the low moans that pearled from his masters’ mouth, hitting harder and cutting deeper than he ever could with humans.  
Jim Moriarty paid for these times with his own pain, his blood apparently _tastier_ when he shivered through the much hated sessions that spiced up his blood for the vampires. 

With his dominance Jim felt like he had at least some control over what happened to his life.   
And Sherlock….Sherlock enjoyed it. 

Grudgingly.   
Traitorous body. 

 

In the end, Sherlock had turned Jim Moriarty, craving his company, his dark intelligence, his angry defiance as well as the way he made Sherlock feel when he whipped him, hurt him, burned him into submission.

Irene carefully watched his preparation, sad for what she feared would be the loss of her favourite son, but not able to deny him what she thought would make him happy.   
It was the one and only person Sherlock had ever turned into a vampire. 

 

When Jim had risen he stayed for 2 weeks, learning the basic knowledge he needed for his new life.   
The he left.   
Broken Sherlock’s heart in so many more ways than he had ever been able to admit to. 

 

400 years.

 

Irene’s eyes locked onto Sherlock’s once more as he sat across of her on his bed, so vulnerable, so scarred by Jim Morriarty. 

“Sherlock….you should allow John to pleasure you the way you need to be pleasured.”

There was a very long silence in which neither of them spoke, their breaths audible in the room.  
Sherlock had himself well under control, but she still picked up how he had tensed, so very briefly.   
He knew exactly what she was talking about.   
They had been too close for too long. 

“I will not allow him to top me. “ Sherlock’s lower lip had curled up, giving him the look of a spoiled child that was told to do something he did not want to. 

But he had answered.   
Irene had not expected that.   
Interesting. 

“Sweetheart, Sherlock. This is not a command. But I can see the two of you might be ….good…in that way together.”

Breathing.  
No answer.   
No denial.  
Expected. 

Irene’s voice purred as she inched closer, her hands now resting on Sherlock’s lower leg, soft touches to ground him, keep him anchored in the room with the two of them.  
“Threaten him. Stay in control. Pleasure him, order him, use his anger for your benefit. You have done it before…. ”  
While Sherlock shook his head hard and fast she could see him thinking, for a very short moment, then his eyes darkened, as if he had closed that door in his mind palace, cut of the thought…

Irene licked her lips as she leaned into her sub, fingers stroking calmly over cold skin.  
“Don’t allow him to take over, Sherlock. Use him. Use his body to give yourself the pleasure that you crave. “

Sherlock’s answer was a short, immediate growl.

“No.”

Irene smiled, pushing an errand curl behind Sherlock’s ear.  
She loved it so when he was defiant.  
Her voice was a positive purr now as she played with his hair, combing it with her fingers, felt him not leaning into her touch, but also not shying away. 

“Sweetheart, darling, you keep forgetting that there is, after all, such a thing as topping from the bottom. Don’t give him any power. Use him as you see fit! He is straight, and I believe both of you will draw more pleasure from the experience than you are doing right now.”

“I am enjoying him.”

Irene grinned. 

She leaned in, her mouth ghosting over Sherlock’s ear.

“Imagine John Watson fucking you, holding your hips tight as you squirm beneath him, as he takes you with too little preparation, on your stomach, hard and angry and fast, his fingers digging into the marks that he would have left on you earlier with your riding crop.”

Irene grinned as she heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.

“Imagine looking at John Watson as he stares down at you, your hands on the headboard, your legs curled around his waist as he uses you like the little cockslut that you are, and then how he will bend in, close to coming, twirling the needles he will have pushed through your nipples, making you scream, allowing you to bite him, drink his heady pleasure as he fucks you through it….”

She pulled back, satisfied to see Sherlock’s fingers curled hard around the sleeping slave’s arm, his cock not visible to her, but she was oh so sure that it had started to fill out once more.

“Think about it Sherlock.”

She rolled herself of the bed, stretching her slender body like a cat.  
“I am off, sweetheart. As always, it was a pleasure. Maybe you could come to my mansion soon, taste what my little cellar has to offer.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, but she could see that his eyes were slightly clouded. 

He was thinking. 

Not about her cellar.

With a smirk Irene Adler collected her clothes and left for the shower, her fingers dialling for her slave to pick her up.

She had planted the seed. 

And knowing Sherlock’s fertile ground of a pleasure-craving brain, the seed would take roots and maybe even grow.

Oh this would be so much fun!


	20. The story of Sherlock and Irene Pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that now that we are getting into the past, there will be mentions of underage abuse apart from my normal warnings. Nothing graphic though…
> 
> Also, the first time Sherlock has sex with Irene will be when he is 13. Now this is very young and I did tag it as underage, but remember these are the Middle Ages, and people married and died much younger in those times than compared to today.  
> With 14 it was legal to marry for boys (it was 12 for girls).
> 
> I just think this is important for me.  
> Cause Underage is not really my thing.
> 
> ….
> 
> Now if you are asking about hard-core BDSM humiliation porn, however….well. 
> 
> Here.  
> Have some plot.
> 
>  
> 
> xx

Irene was old.  
Sherlock had - in the beginning – tried to find out more about the woman that was his sire, his mother and father at once, his lover, his prison master. He reckoned that she had lived before Christ had walked the earth, that she seen the rise and falls of kingdoms. 

He asked and asked and asked.  
Irene beat him instead of answering. 

Sherlock learned one thing very quickly:  
The Woman did not speak about her past.  
Ever. 

Sherlock knew enough, deduced enough to know that she was from around 700 BC, with a high probability born in what was now known as Egypt, at her time the Kushite Empire.  
He believed that she had probably been raised and lived among the pharaohs. 

Her own maker left her soon after turning her, maybe after the novelty of her body wore off, maybe he was killed, another thing Irene never spoke about.  
Never bring up her sire.  
Never.

Irene Adler, formerly Isis, started working on her own power and influence that would web across the world, almost at its full glory by the time she met Sherlock around 2100 years later. 

 

 

Paris, 1420

Irene would always remember the exact moment she saw Sherlock. 

 

It was in a Parisian brothel catering to the royal, rich and famous. Irene had bought herself two disease-free girls for the night and had just hooked them under when she was stopped by startling blue-green eyes from the stairwell.  
She sniffed the scents around her, a natural instinct to any kind of human that managed to distract her.  
Irene had learned to trust her instincts over the years. 

It was a small, thin boy, mouth set in a hard line; He was not pretty in common sense, face a little too long with a mop of bright red curls, but the way he studied his surrounding that was intriguing. 

His pale, old eyes stopped on her, running up and down her body before he sneered slightly. 

Irene felt like she could taste him _think_.  
Her eyes fluttered closed for a short moment and she took a deep breath. 

One of the girls in Irene’s arms noticed her interest, her eyes flying between her client and the small, curly haired boy. The whore grinned broadly and leaned into Irene, her voluptuous body pressing into the mistress. She rubbed one of her exposed nipples, whispering into The Woman’s ear.

“Would you be interest in the boy joining us as well? He is well versed in bed and will stay still for a beating!”

The Woman turned, eyes flicking up and down the wench – at around 17 she still looked fairly young, ginger curls like the boy, showing clear family resemblance.  
Irene had been attracted to her smell, slightly flat but with a nice peachy finishing that promised good pleasure-blood. 

Irene’s mouth curled up in a mocking smile and she gave a curt nod.  
“Bring him.”

The small boy’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders pulling up in defence as his fingers gripped tighter to the railing of the stairs.  
But he followed them.  
Just as he was told.

 

Irene bit Sherlock that night.  
Tasted him. 

She held the small boy on her lap as she let her fingers run along his naked back, bruised and scarred documenting a short life of abuse.  
Her bite was quick and she mercifully numbed his pain so his small body relaxed into her.

He had been divine but the taste depth still very immature.  
Very shallow.  
Irene could bet that this one would ripe very nicely however.  
So much potential in such a small body. 

She knew she wanted him. 

When she left Irene paid a couple of coins behind closed doors to the madam of the house; the old, fat woman grinned, and Irene knew that she thought she had made a good deal.  
“Not worth for anything but a beating” the madam whispered into Irene’s ear who shuddered and turned to get her new donor slave.  
The mother cried a couple of silent tears, but they dried quickly as Irene pressed a small pouch of coins into her hand.

One less mouth to feed. 

And with that Sherlock was hers.  
How she had loved the mid-ages.

 

The Countess Irene Adler of Calw had achieved several things that were important for her – her name opened doors wherever she went; she was wealthy beyond means, her network of brothels and spies stretched across the known world. 

Also, she collected humans.  
Donors to be exact. 

Irene resided in Calw at that time, a small country in the south of Germany; her eternal youth forced her to change her country of residence every 20 years or so to be sure not to be burned on a stake.  
Her riches stemmed from a tight network of very exclusive, expensive brothels within the important shipping routes and wealthy cities of Europe and England. 

Irene had invested in land, and her mansions were spread throughout the current world, from the British Isles over France, Bohemia down to Castille. Irene loved to travel, and she did, taking care of her businesses while on the road, shaking hands and collecting money all over Europe.  
And to sample the rich variety of tastes the land had to offer. 

For Irene Adler had always been greedy. 

During her travels she would take new roads, visit different parts of the cities she passed, always focusing on the pungent yet oh so rare smell of a high-profile donor.  
Sometimes she would not find one for more than a year, and then she would have years where she would find up to 3.

Her donors came from all walks of life, farmers, thieves, prostitutes. Poor people that would not be missed but with such high-end blood that she would smell them across a field, a trail in a busy street or in a room full of whores. 

When Irene smelled a potential donor, whether farmer, schoolgirl, nun or bandit, if she had her eye on them and their taste was according to standards, she ”claimed” them. Most of the times her guards knew what to do when she pointed at a person, commanding “Get me this one”.  
When they were in a town or a street, large enough to forget people’s names and faces, they would follow the donor Irene picked until they could kidnap them in the middle of the night.  
The guards that The Woman had carefully selected were very good at making people disappear without a trace. 

Under the floor of her wagon there was a hollow, narrow space, normally kept for valuables.  
She kept it stocked with with ropes and chains as well as blankets – so when she did find someone, the guards could bind and gag them within less than a minute and push them into the secret compartment of the wagon.

And then they would leave, protected by the night.  
Irene would normally avoid the areas she ‘harvested’ for about 20 years, to make sure that they disappearance of one person would not repeated too soon. After all, Europe was large and she had all the time in the world. 

Once the mistress had found and secured a donor, the new slave would be taken to the mistress’s closest mansion.  
She had three of them on the mainland.  
Calw. France. Castille. 

In every mansion there was a cellar where the men and women were kept. 

Irene Adler had figured out a system to keep the donors imprisoned to perfection, the mansions always far away from the nearest village, heavily guarded.  
Her servants were either very reliable or mute and easily controllable. The donors would normally be allowed to roam the houses to a certain degree, the estate stocked with many things to keep the mind occupied – from games, handiwork to whores, depending on whoever was residing where. 

The donors were allowed to work in the gardens and go for rides with guards if they had behaved in a good manner and shown no escape attempts.  
Any such undertaking were punished heavily with having all freedoms revoked, spending a certain amount of time chained in a cell. 

Depending on the mistress’s schedule, the donors had to submit to Irene Adler’s feeding sessions up to several times a year, horrified of the evil nightmare that had taken them, bound for the rest of their live

 

At the moment her collection was 11 donors on the mainland of Europe, including Sherlock.  
6 women. 5 men.  
Of all ages and from all ways of life.

 

There was a Nubian woman called Ashaki who lived in the mansion Irene held in France, and she was the one that raised Sherlock.  
She was about 34 when he the small boy was dropped off at the castle, and the childless woman who constantly missed the heat of the south, the laughter and dance of her people, took the child in. 

Ashaki was not able to communicate to anyone in the household – kidnapped by Irene with 11 in the deep south, she had been kept isolated and virginal till the current day, when her blood had started to sour with the knowledge that she would never have a child of her own, never would be able to enjoy motherhood.  
By this time her social skills had wilted and she ghosted through the mansion she currently resided in, speaking to no one, quietly making herself useful in the kitchen and gardens, bitter about a life she never had. 

When Irene had brought the quiet, ginger boy with the haunted eyes into the slave quarters, the other two that lived with Ashaki stepped away, scared by the unnatural calm of this child, how he stared at them with his pale eyes, looking straight into their hearts.

But Ashaki realized him for who he was.  
He was the son the gods had kept from her until then.

Irene left him in her care. 

 

Sherlock adored Ashaki.  
Her deep, smoky voice singing of her people, of the heat, the golden sands, the deep blue ocean.  
He did not understand her in the beginning, her language a broken mix of Mahas, spoken in Nubia and heavily accented French she had picked up by listening to the servants.  
But her arms were warmer than his mothers had ever been and she would hold him at night until he fell asleep, singing of lands he had never seen.

During the day she always kept the small boy by her side, her dessert-hot fingers on his shoulders or curling around him as she held him close as if she never wanted to let him go.

For the first time in his life Sherlock felt _loved_. 

Sherlock was smart and had a quick tongue that he could wield better than many men could a sword. At 3 years old he was already wary of other people, and he preferred to stay either alone or by the side of Ashaki. Everyone else scared him. 

However, in a house that is ruled by fear and death a small boy can bring life where nothing else does, and Sherlock was allowed to roam the stables and fields around the house and large gardens of the estate.

He tried to escape the first time when he was 7, but was caught within 3 days and beaten. 

Sherlock tried two more times.  
The last time they beat Ashaki instead of him.  
Her deep wails and tear-streaked cheeks haunted him for the rest of his natural life.

After that Sherlock did not try to run anymore. 

 

There were many ways to keep a young boy occupied, and Sherlock roamed the mansion for days, listening to the chattering of the maids and watching the guards during their evening dice games.  
He started a small collection of wounded animals under his bed, but when a small bird died of internal injuries Ashaki found out about it and he was banned from bringing anything to his rooms.  
Many of the servants feared Sherlock, sure that he was of the faery or a son of a demon with his reddish hair and pale eyes that – they whispered – could gaze straight into your soul.  
His keen mind and too large personal knowledge about different members of the household soon had him kicked out of the guard house, and when he started using the milk in the kitchen to grow mould, he was banned there as well. 

Sherlock had no one apart from Ashaki and his own intellect.

And then there was Irene.

Irene Adler visited on rarely, but when she did appear she seemed like the most powerful and intelligent person in the world – she was in no way as boring or predictable than the rest of the house, and that excited him.  
Therefore, when she did visit, Sherlock would hide in the stables to watch her, crouch under thick, heavy curtains or gazed through windows to follow her every move.  
He noted how the donors started to cower, the kitchen maids silenced their constant, mindless chattering and the guards stood straighter than they had before. 

She had power over them he did not understand.  
And it fascinated and repelled him simultaneously. 

 

Irene always knew he was there.  
Her brown eyes flickered over to him every now and then, blood-red lips splitting into a smile that send shivers down his spine, both knowing that he had been found out. 

But Irene never touched Sherlock.  
Never acknowledged him any further.  
Never asked him to leave.  
She just always let him know that she knew where he was. 

It was almost like some sick, silent game the two played over the years. 

 

Then it happened.

Sherlock, in his 12th summer, woke up feeling strange and unusual, his lower body sticky with a mass that had obviously come from his own body. Ashaki, a virgin herself had never talked to him about his body, but he had seen enough animals rutting to know that he had matured sexually.  
Disgusting.  
Sherlock stared at himself, his crotch painted with the pearly white smear that soiled his sheets as well, cold panic curling in his stomach.  
Sex. It called up hazy memories of his mother, of pain and embarrassment, of tears and screaming.  
For some reason he had hoped that his mind would win over the …animalistic side of his body. 

Then he remembered what this meant.  
He heard the others talking about him, whispering behind held hands, how Irene had never touched him, gazing at him, smiling at him, but never feeding from him. Never taking.  
The other donors had been sulking about this, but in the last years the rumours had become louder that she wanted to take his virginity while tasting his blood.

It horrified Sherlock.  
He never told AShaki what he heard.  
But they all knew.  
They just did never discuss. 

Realizing what had happened, Sherlock got himself a bucket of water with a couple of soap shavings and a brush and tried to scrub his humiliation from the sheet, scrubbing hard just as he had seen the women do so many times before.  
But the kitchen maid caught him hanging up the sheet to dry, and her high-pitched laughter followed him back to his room.  
The rumours that Sherlock had matured spread like a wildfire over the house, and hungry eyes followed him wherever he went, calculating, haunting the young man. 

They knew that Irene would hopefully leave them in peace when she found her youngest donor had sexually matured. 

Ashaki had cried and flung her arms around his bony, lean frame and rocked him, holding him tight. She did not let him go for a long time.

And for the first time in a very long time Sherlock was utterly afraid. 

 

He tried to run.  
Of course he did.  
Fear had taken hold in his heart, and he could not _think._  
And he hated what that did to him.  
The guards had expected him to run, watching the boy closely whenever he stepped out of the mansion, and when he finally tried to bolt they had caught him in less time than the kitchen maids needed to prepare supper.

Of course Sherlock had known his chances were slim.  
It was like a hare running from a pack of wolves. 

They caught him faster than ever before. 

When the guards brought him back to the mansion, most of the staff had come to watch how Sherlock was taken of the horse and chained, a mixture of pity and satisfaction in their eyes as he was walked down to the cellar where the cells were.  
He tried hard to keep his head up straight, willing his tears to stay away until he was alone, but the telltale shine in his ghost eyes made some of the guards grin. 

Sherlock had to stay in the cold cellar for one week before he was released, tight metal manacles around his feet and wrists connected with a shortened heavy chain that allowed him only small steps.  
Ashaki fed him as he could not lift his hands. 

And the mansion waited for Irene to return.


	21. The story of Sherlock and Irene Pt2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry the updates take forever at the moment.
> 
> Unfortunately I managed to burn myself out and I am picking up the pieces at the moment.  
> It also hurt my creativity, but I am getting better and my imagination is thawing once more. 
> 
> However, due to me being a delicate flower and shit, I would actually ask for no more creative criticism (or uncreative, whatever) at this point and for this fic.
> 
> However, kudos and happy comments always put a smile on my face, so yeah.  
> Don’t know when the next chapter will be up, but please know the story is not dead.  
> Just hibernating. 
> 
> Like me.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> xx

Irene came back for a visit around 7 months after the incident, and Sherlock did not hide to watch her arrive as he usually did. Instead he sat in his room, clutching at a pillow, keeping his breathing calm and regulated, his eyes fixed on the shiny metal that bound him. 

Irene smiled when the lovely smell of the virgin donor curled in her nose, ripened and bloomed, and with a wave of her hands she whispered a short command to one of her guards.  
The guard had grinned, and then he had done as he was told. 

He dragged the struggling boy to Irene’s chambers where he was stripped and a long chain attached to the manacles on his feet, denying him any escape.  
Sherlock had sat down, leaning his back against the cold, moist stone wall, as far away from the bed as possible.  
And he waited  
He waited for his mistress, steeling his mind, trying to convince himself that whatever she had in store for him he could do nothing about. 

When Irene entered, her eyes searched for the donor whose smell overpowered the room, heavy with fear and anxiety but also with the promise of rich, heady blood she had not hoped he would develop.  
The shivering boy she saw had transformed, his once copper curls darkened over the years into a brown chestnut still streaked with red. His grey-blue eyes stared at her, just as defiant as he had been on the first day they had met, but he had matured into a taller, leaner youth, just starting to develop into what she knew would be a striking young man.  
Irene had smiled and walked to her bed, slowly shedding her clothes as she knew Sherlock looked upon her.  
By the time she was fully naked the boy turned his back, facing the wall, covering his modesty with his hands, as if this would somehow keep the mistress away from him.  
She did not hear him whimper or beg, but the sharp scent of sudden panic cut through the air like a knife. 

The Woman smiled. 

She stepped up to the cowering boy, her voice lowered into a seductive purr: “Sherlock, come join me in bed.”

She watched the unruly curls shiver as the boy pulled his head between his shoulders, and then he looked at her, fully, for the first time.

His eyes studied her naked figure for a moment, mouth curling into a frown of disgust. 

“No. I would prefer to return to my chambers, please.”  
His voice was steady until wavered at the end, ever so slightly, with fear. 

Irene threw her head back and laughed. 

The boy stiffened at her reaction, his slender, pale hands fisting over his crotch, his body tensing as if he would bolt any moment.  
She lowered herself next to him and leaned in, her fingers running through his soft hair, curling it appreciatively around her fingers; then she pulled in the air around him in greedy, audible sniffs and her mouth pulled into a large smile, her sharp canines emerging, watching with glee as his eyes widened at the sight.

 

A thick, cold mass plunged heavy in his stomach, a white-hot flash of panic shooting down his spine.  
 _  
Fangs._

_Not possible.  
NOT POSSIBLE! _

The trembling boy closed his eyes and took several deep breaths that were meant to calm, as he tried to control his racing thoughts. 

Not… _possible_ it just and simply…could.  
Not.  
BE!

He had heard the rumours, but they were….

Rumours.  
Horror Stories.

Fairy Tales. 

 

He had not believed….

Sherlock swallowed again and again, trying to get rid of the large lump in his throat. 

 

Suddenly Woman traced her fingers along his goose pimpled skin, pulling him back to reality.  
She had hoped to get a whimper or moan along with his realization at what she was (or wasn’t), but Sherlock staid still, his body hard as a board, eyes never leaving the rough stones on the wall.  
She was fascinated by his inner battle, studying his profile, the eyes narrowed, breath shallow, the slight shiver of panic raising bumps along his skin.

She knew what he was thinking.  
She had been there before herself.

Countless had been there before him. 

He was not the first.

Still, for Irene it never had lost its appeal. 

He voice was low as she leaned in closer. 

“You knew this day would come…you are a clever boy, aren’t you..?”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, and the lips of his mouth curled downwards in disgust once more, underlining the pout of his plush lips. 

Mesmerizing. 

She leaned in, whispering in the young man’s ears, her hair brushing against his neck and back, her heavy breast now resting against the warm flesh of his shoulders.  
“Well, then, you know there is nothing that will change what I am here to do. Do you need me to call in the guard to drag you to the bed and hold you down while I do what is necessary? Or are you going to behave…. _Sherlock_?” 

It was not a question.  
It was a warning.

A command.

The aroma of fear and anger spiced the room once more, and Irene felt like she could taste Sherlock thinking, a whirlwind of emotions bittering the otherwise pleasant odour.  
She wondered what he would taste like.  
And if his fear would be as savoury yes bitter as it smelled. 

Sherlock stood, abruptly, limbs stiff from the cold.

“Let’s get this over with.” 

His voice was soft yet hoarse, as if he had been screaming for a long time.  
He stepped to the side, carefully avoiding touching the mistress who was still crouching on the floor, and then Sherlock slowly walked to the bed.  
He kept his hands clutched over his privates, and from the shuffle Irene could see that the boy had been wearing the manacles for a while, his walk restricted but there was a certain ease in his movements.  
The long chain that connected him to the wall snaked behind him, cluttering darkly over the cold floor. 

Irene leaned back as he reached the bed and smirked, seeing from the cramped muscles in his back that he wondered what was expected from him. He hesitated for a moment, suppressing the impulse to turn and stare at the woman still sitting on the floor, then he crawled on the bed with stiff limps, and finally laid on his back on top of the silken cover, stretched himself out, staring at the ceiling. 

And then Sherlock waited. 

Irene enjoyed just watching him. 

She had all the time in the world.

 

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Sherlock laid back, and after he realized that Irene would not pounce upon him the moment he was on the bed he focused on calming his breathing, his hypersensitive skin irritated by the stitching on the silken quilt under him, his hands still crossed, cradling his privates that felt cold and heavy under his fingers. 

And he waited.  
He forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on the ceiling above him.  
He did not want to seem….impatient.

The naked body of Irene Adler was not the first time he had seen a woman without clothes, Ashaki undressing in front of him when he was much younger.  
Also, even though he hated to admit it, he had started to sit in trees in the mornings, well out of sight, and watch the servant girls bathe in the creek close by. 

Of course he had heard the lewd bantering from the guard house, recognizing lust from the voices of the sometimes drunken men; but lust was something that Sherlock had been exposed to as a young child, and while it had recently started to wash over his body, uncontrollably, it was nothing Sherlock savoured. If he could, he would have burned or beaten his bodily reactions from his mind….but when he had pinched himself, hard, once when his erection would not subside….it had given him a flash of pleasure that Sherlock was fully appalled by. 

Still, his new reactions to his surroundings, his wandering thoughts and needs that he could not supress…of course Sherlock had looked upon them in a fully analytical manner.  
He always would.  
And while he knew that he should be attracted by the large, white breasts and milky skins of the one milk maid most of the men on the castle fantasized about, he felt nothing but slight disgust and utter annoyance at her silly, brainless babbling that would pour from her mouth the moment she opened it.  
Sherlock had looked at other inspirations around him, but felt soon that no one on the estate interested him enough, especially once they spewed their worthless opinions into the world.  
There was a muscular, freckled boy, almost man from one of the villages….but the inhabitants of Irene Adler’s estate were forbidden.  
And he was to be saved for the mistress.

So Sherlock had denied himself the pleasures of the flesh, ignoring his bodily needs during his waking hours, but continuing to spill his seed at night.  
Once he had woken, the lingering dream of the mistress hunting him through the woods and finally ravishing _him_ , forcing his head into the wet grass as she rode him, and he had woken with a scream, his seed pumping onto his naked stomach.

Irene Adler had haunted him.  
Night after night.  
And now she was here, and his body…remembered. 

And Sherlock had hated himself for it. 

 

Irene had smelled the boy relaxing, the bitter hint of anxiety slowly making way for the pure aroma of Sherlock, untainted by the sharp taste of emotions.  
Sherlock smelled of…Small, tart cherries, dark wood, almost a little gamey like a young stag…with an undertone of rosemary and (lorebeer).  
And finally the slight hint of cinnamon of anticipation and arousal was added to the heady mix.

The young donor was ready for her. 

Irene rose, her movement fluid and soundless from centuries of practice. 

Sherlock startled when the Woman was suddenly next to him, tensing his body once more into a knot, his hands flying up instinctively as if he could hold her off.  
She hovered over the lean frame of the boy, staring into the unusual hue of grey and green with a little blue, that now darkened with fear. 

Ah, the fear added a bitter aroma of poison ivy that Irene was already not too fond of.  
Not a fear donor.  
Good to know. 

Irene continued to stare at Sherlock, her hands on both sides of the youth’s head, her hips resting against his.  
Cold.  
He started to shiver.  
She had propped herself up next to him, allowing the boy a look at her – as she knew – well formed body. It had been a weapon and a tool for so many centuries, and she knew it probably work on this boy, scared as he was, for most men Irene had meet were the same.  
Dumb, smart, they all gave in when it came to sex.  
She could already see the proof laying heavy between his legs, the smell invading her nostrils. 

Lust was….predictable. Boring.  
But helpful. 

Sherlock’s eyes had once more wandered down her body, but she missed the spark of want that she normally inflicted on men of all ages. 

Instead there was more disgust, confusion and hate.  
Lust, yes.  
But unwanted.  
Rejected.  
Interesting. 

Ah, she loved when her donors were unpredictable like this. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close as Irene leaned in and her cold mouth collided with his heated skin, licking at the rosy nubs of his nipples, still soft like a child’s, quickly pebbling under her tongue.  
His breath hitched and his hand fisted once more. 

Still, his voice, young and scared, startled Irene.  
“Please….get this over with.”

Irene continued lapping at his skin, then she pulled herself up, cradling his young body. 

“As you wish.”

And Irene Adler descended upon Sherlock in an unnatural speed, sinking her teeth into his pale neck as he tried to stay still, watching the tears rise in his eyes as she sunk her sharp canines into his neck, not adding pleasure for the first couple of seconds, to taste her new donor as he was, in his horror, in his pain. 

It turned out Sherlock was just as delicious as he smelled. 

Rich.  
Multi-facetted.  
Deep.  
Sinful. 

She groaned at his taste as he bucked up beneath her, fingers scrabbling at her cold shoulders as he keened at the hurt of the bite. Finally Irene added the pleasure, and the taste quickly diluted, as if watered down, dulled down into something two-dimensional…

The Pain. 

It had been….beyond her expectation. 

And Irene continued drinking, taking away the pleasure to indulge in his pain as Sherlock struggled to keep himself from screaming, back arching away from her bite, salty tears spilling, darkening the silk beneath him. 

But Irene held him steady, drinking and drinking and in the end Sherlock screamed and could not stop. 

 

Xxxxx

 

If anyone would have ever asked Sherlock about that particular evening, when Irene had taken his innocence from the pleasures and the pain of his flesh, he would not have to lie if he said that he could not remember.

Not that anyone would ever have been stupid enough to ask.  
But the corner in his mind-palace was covered with a dark, heavy curtain, and he had never touched it. Not then and not now.  
The time before his sire had turned him, inititated him had been hard, but that particular night…had shattered something in him, destroyed something, and Sherlock preferred not ever to be reminded of what he had lost that evening. 

 

Instead, he had learned to survive. 

And survive he did.


	22. The story of Sherlock and Irene Pt 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This backstory is running away with me, but I think it will give you a good insight where Sherlock and Irene stand.   
> Please note the continuous warning for underage abuse. (13 is underage, right?)
> 
>  
> 
> x

The beginning had been hard. 

 

Irene very quickly built up a preference for the unusual taste that was so very Sherlock, and she found out soon enough that a mixture of pain and pleasure for the boy was one of the most delicious aromas she had come across in her lifetime. 

Sherlock was young, hardly thirteen and the initial shock of Irene using his body as a resource in a way he would have never anticipated messed with the clear structures of his mind.   
Before that everything had been quite rational, he had a general idea of how the world worked, and the night with Irene had destroyed everything with Sherlock’s heavy orgasm between her cold thighs.   
His mind spun in circles again and again, negotiating, while the Mistress continued to ask for him, chaining him to her bed, using him as she had always intended. 

It was too much for his young and fairly innocent brain. 

Sherlock, after about three days of struggling, finally broke down, curling into a small, shivering ball, his quick tongue stopped moving as his thoughts silenced.   
Sherlock’s mind emptied itself to protect him, and it showed in his eyes. 

Irene noticed the apathy of her newest donor, and while she knew his plight and had gone through it herself, she knew that the boy would either have to break or survive this period.   
She hoped he would make it, but at the same time she had no time or patience to pamper the boy.  
If he was too fragile for what was happening to him now, he would not make it through the next couple of years at the side of Irene.

And his blood would still be tasty, even if his mind broke. 

So Irene continued to feed from her newest donor, just small amounts to play with his blood aromas, realizing that a mix of pain and pleasure was the headiest she could draw from his thin frame. 

Especially the riding crop was one of her preferred tools on the boy.

He writhed so beautifully, his cries of pain a wonderful addition to the bitter cinnamon and honeyed game-taste he had developed. 

Feral. 

Wonderful.

 

But of course Sherlock survived. 

He always did. 

He survived birth and adolescence in the 1400’s.  
He survived an addicted mother who sold his body for her next bottle of wine.   
He survived being a commodity in a brothel in Paris that catered to the rich and powerful. 

His mind had then built a safe harbour for his sanity, an empty house that protected him when he stepped into it, and over the years he had added room over rooms, adding to the dark centre that was now hidden behind curtains, unwanted memories stored away forever.   
Never to be touched. 

And Irene once more pushed his sanity away from what he thought had been reality, all the way back to the dark rooms in the centre of his mind palace.   
And Sherlock hid.

For about a week he continued ignoring the outside world, coming up for food every now and then, deeply buried in his – unfortunately small – knowledgebase. 

And then…  
Sherlock got bored. 

As safe as his mind was, there was nothing…new.   
Nothing to feed his never-ending hunger for the unknown. 

And he started thinking.   
About what Irene was.  
Where she had come from. 

He wanted to… _learn_ things.   
Ask questions.   
Find out more about the fairy tales that had come to life.

 

x

 

The next time Irene visited, she smelled the change of mind in the air, heady adrenalin and testosterone mixed to the usual scent of Sherlock. 

He was _awake_!  
Sherlock had not broken after all.   
Good. 

But then he spoke.   
For the first time Irene felt the sharp stabs of the boy’s brilliant imagination. 

Sherlock’s pale, cool eyes flicked up and down the curves of her body and then the sharp nose wrinkled in something that was close to disgust.

“I was wondering what held you up, are ever so slightly off your schedule, the sun has set already. But I can see that you had a quick shag with the…stable boy? Well, I would have thought you to have a more refined taste, even though I have heard that his genitalia are larger than average, and maybe that is what a woman prefers, I have no knowledge about that.”

Irene had frozen at the door, staring at the boy who jerked his head to flick back some errand curls out of his eyes.

“You should have him check your coat for straw when you leave, it is such a tell-tale sign and really not appropriate for a woman of your standing.” 

The pale eyes scanned once more.

“Ah, forgive me, of course the staff is fully aware of your sexual…needs, and you don’t mind Eric boasting about the fuck in the guard house. After all, you use your body to make an impression on men, which is really a sorry excuse for anyone with your intellect, but there you go. The weapons of a woman who should really know better.”

His eyes settled upon her face, a fair amount of defiance glimmering there. 

Irene was surprised for the first time in decades by a human, this a young boy who was chained to her bed, spread-eagled.

Her green eyes narrowed. 

“How…..?”

“I can observe and think rationally, mistress, you should try it one time!”

Oh.   
Silly boy.   
You _had_ to take it too far, didn’t you.  
Well, two can play that game. 

Irene straightened herself, her lips curling into a cruel smile.   
“Ah, Sherlock, it is nice to see you are back. I believe I shall have you whipped in public for that wonderful little insight.”

Irene crossed her arms as she stepped closer, her eyes roaming the face of the Sherlock, watching the inner struggle as he realized that he miscalculated. 

So young. 

While Irene did applaud humans using their brains, she was still surprised how stupid most of them were. This one however…seemed rather clever.   
Maybe too clever for his own good. 

Irene liked those traits in anyone, let alone a donor. 

She had her riding crop still in her hand, sliding it along the rough leather of her gloves.  
Her eyes glittered almost predatorily.   
“I might be persuaded however, if you can prove yourself. So tell me, Sherlock, what else do you see?”

Sherlock blinked at the mistress, mind still hovering over her threat, the sharp taste of fear laying over his usual scent. 

“Come on, Sherlock, I am waiting. You have as much time as it takes guards to get here and take you out.”

With that she turned and opened the door.  
“JEAN! I require your assistance.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he realized what was about to happen. 

The words sputtered from his lips, voice breaking slightly in fear:   
“You have been meeting the local magister this morning, your dress cut too low and slightly too provocative for such a rural area indicating that you despise him for his well-known backwardness and were planning to provoke him. You had him over but served only served watered-down wine as well as peasant cakes, which the gluttonous pig will have made even more angry than he already been. “

Irene took a deep breath.   
Astounding.  
Her hand rose as the guard stepped into the room, halting him in his tracks. 

“How did you know that?”

Sherlock’s forehead was shining with perspiration, his eyes were wide.  
“The magister is an idiot, anyone can see that he uses his position to steal from you and everywhere else; you always meet him on the fourth day of your return. Everyone knows that he hates the snub of meeting him so late, the most important man of the area, and the fat pig despises riding so far to come here.  
He lost his temper, knocked over the glass – there are light stains of wine on your sleeve. You don’t drink alcohol ever and good wine would be much darker!”

Irene stared at the boy.   
That…was brilliant.   
But Sherlock could have picked up all these things from listening to gossip.

Irene’s smile was cold as she answered:  
“Not good enough Sherlock. You speak of rumours and yet you know about the stable boy.”

With another wave of her slender fingers the guard continued his way to the bed and opened Sherlock’s chain with one of his keys. 

Sherlock’s voice now clearly broke as he cried out:  
“STOP! Stop, please, I also know that you rode out after the meeting to visit the crops east of the estate with farmer Dubois!”

Irene raised her hand lazily, and Louis held in more now, the struggling naked boy in his grip.

“How?”  
Irene’s voice was hard as steel, and it clearly indicated that she had no more time to give.

“CORNCOCKLE! You have pieces of the corncockle on the top of your foot, these plants grow in large numbers along the wheat fields of Duboi’s estate, I think it has to do with his bees that fertilize them! He showed you the fields on horse, you have two grains of wheat at knee height on your dress, they are still husked which means you would have them directly from a plant, and the height indicates that you were riding close to or along a field, probably to inspect it, getting close enough for the grains to attach to the velvet of your dress and stay attached.   
Please, please, please, I am sorry Mistress, I did not mean it, but I am not lying, I observe!   
Please. “

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, mortified of the prospect of being dragged outside, naked, to be flogged in front of the sneering men and giggling women…  
Not that….

Not that.

Irene smiled.   
She stepped up to Sherlock, rubbing her gloved hand through his tangled hair.   
“Good boy Sherlock” she purred. “Jean, I changed my mind.”

Sherlock let out a low sob as the guard huffed and then dragged him back to the bed, where he reattached the chain from his leg to the foot of the wall. 

“Thank you Mistress, thank you….” Sherlock continued in one go, the relief evident as slight shivers ran over his sweaty body. 

Irene went up to the boy, and dug her hand into his curls once more, the scare having made Sherlock pliant enough that he did not shy away.   
“Mmmmmm. That was really rather impressive, Sherlock. We shall talk more about it on the morrow. For now, I think a lesson will be necessary that you shall not speak out of place in the future.”

Sherlock blanched when Irene let go of his hair and went to the large chest in the corner, which he knew only came out when she hurt him one way or another.   
Irene propped open the lid, searching though her collection with hooded eyes before she pulled out a long, slithering bull whip that would not just bruise.

This one would scar. 

 

And it did.


	23. The story of Sherlock and Irene Pt4

For the next while, Sherlock was allowed to roam the manor, still chained, but Irene had him fed outside with rare and very taste food that the land had to offer, always taking a couple of minutes to speak to the young man. 

However it took only a couple of days for Sherlock to spit insults at Irene once more, and with a sigh she had him brought back into her bedroom, chained and gagged.

And Irene knew she would have to train him to take him along on her journeys.   
For this young man was far more amusing and interesting than anyone she had come across in a while. And he could deduced the truth about gossip from the servants she pointed at with his narrow, arrogant stare .

Oh, Sherlock was so very good.   
And he could be helpful for blackmail.   
Consider the possibilities.   
If he would deduce the dirty little secrets about the king of France…just for instance. 

Oh, Irene had so many places she wanted to take Sherlock to. 

However Sherlock was far from being…tame enough to be allowed among civilized people.   
She would have to potty-train that little puppy before he would follow her obediently and without a leash.   
A weapon was worth nothing if it cut your own hand while you used it. 

And she had so much time. No need to rush, really. 

 

That evening she climbed on the bed as usual, as Sherlock was curled on his side, naked with his hands and feet bound, a leather gag lodged securely between his cupid-bow lips.

Irene snuggled up behind him, cupping his arsecheek with one hand, the other slung over his shoulder, drawing him closer to herself. 

She wiggled slightly, then she brought her mouth up to his ear, huffed away his curls and whispered into it:

”Here is what you are going to do, Sherlock.   
You amuse me. And I think I can make this amusing for you as well. Now how about we make a …” she rolled her eyes, unbeseen by the boy:”…a Deal…Just you and I. I will take you on my journeys, show you things you would have never even dreamed about. I will show you the fires of the night in the north, the sin of Rome and the ethereal beauty of the Alps. I have saltmines near Calw, I could show you how salt is mined, glittering like veins of diamonds deep within the bowels of the earth.   
I will introduce you to the leaders of the world. Of men that rule more land than you would ever hope to see, men so rich that they _own_ whole kingdoms, I will introduce you to the pope.   
I can show you all these things and more…”  
Irene curled her hips around the backside of the young man, her fingers now sliding down to his cock, taking the soft, flaccid little things between her cold fingers and kneaded it.   
Slowly.   
“Now to your part of our little deal.”

Sherlock hissed at the unwanted touch, curling his body away from Irene’s hand, pulling his head towards his knees.   
The Woman, never stopping her rhythmic notion on the boy’s cock, climbed over Sherlock to allow best access to his ear.   
“Your part will be to _please_ me Sherlock. Your whole existence will be for my own, personal pleasure. When we go out, you will follow me around like a good, little puppy, listen, observe and tell your mistress all the things you deduce.  
I will show you pleasure and pain far beyond anything, Sherlock. I have this special little room in my castle in Calw…ahh, I tell you, the Vandals are still one of the best when it comes to inventing instruments that lead to pain. “

Sherlock’s eyes popped open, and he focused them straight ahead, but Irene could see tears gathering in the corner of his eye.   
She licked them away, softly, just before the threatened to spill and go to waste.   
“You are so delicious, Sherlock, your pleasure and your pain, your wonderful intellect. I want it all, you see.  
Of course, you can always decline me.   
Stay here.   
Be safe.   
From the world, from me….  
So that’s my deal, Sherlock. What will it be?”

 

Sherlock shivered.  
Irene was like a Siren, like from the stories that Ashaki had told him, the women who’s words were so sweet, yet they would tear apart any man that followed them. 

Her hand continued to stroke his cock, and the pleasure of that, in his teenage hormone-overladen brain so magnificent, that it whitened out many of his other thoughts.   
The other of Irene’s nimble hands now dislodged his gag, and Sherlock spit it out, the sodden material clinging to his dry mouth.   
Sherlock bit his lips, the pain bringing him back to reality, but also intensifing the feeling of her cold hand, stroking.

It was wrong.   
She was wrong.   
He did not like it, and nothing in the world could….could…..

Sherlock spoke fast, before his mind washed back into the pleasure of this talented woman stroking his cock. 

“Piss off.” His voice was steady, unwavering.

In that moment Sherlock was sure that his moment of pride, of turning down an almost unbelievable offer just to show Irene how much he despised her, was worth all the hurt he would get from it.   
So very very worth it. 

Irene smiled gently, almost as if pleased. 

She pulled the lean figure of the boy on his back, her strength so far superior to the narrow boy below her. Irene went back to his cock, which was now fat and fully hard between his legs as she shifted onto her knees, stroking him slowly, leisurely as it slid roughly between her keen fingers. 

She caught his eyes one more time, her greens burning into his pale grey ones, and then she lowered herself forward, licking over the dry head, his foreskin still closed on the top of the shaft.   
Sherlock made a chocked sound deep in his throat as Irene took him in her mouth, the cold of her wetness almost hot against his skin, latching the lips at the middle of cock as she slid them down, pulling the foreskin along with them. Sherlock sobbed quietly as his head now bumped against the back of her throat, and she did not stop but kept going and inhaled, pulling his hard prick deeper inside, sucking as he filled up her throat.  
She flicked her green eyes at him once more, and Sherlock, shook his head, bright red points glowing on his cheeks.  
“Please….please …. don’t make me….”

Irene pulled off, smiling sweetly at the startled gasp from the writhing boy.

“I would never, Sherlock. But this is how I do want you to remember me by. Now that you are not joining me.”

And she went back down, burrowing her face into the hot crotch area between his legs, lapping at the healthy boy sweat between them, curling the still rather sparse amount of pubic hair around her tongue.   
She shifted further back, shoving a finger into her own mouth and then she smiled sweetly, her voice a raspy purr: “Enjoy, Sherlock.”

And Irene bit hard into the vein running along his hip, fat and blue, adding pleasure the moment her fangs hit the blood barrier. Sherlock curled away from the bite then lifted his hips into it, and Irene trailed her spit-covered finger over Sherlock’s perineum, letting it slip into his body faster than he realized.  
The Woman pulled back, lapping Sherlock’s cock, her mouth still filled with his own blood, dipping it into red, her one finger pumping rhythmically in and out of his shivering body.

“Stop…” Sherlock whimpered.

Irene froze in her movements, her finger deep inside Sherlock.  
She leaned in, nuzzling the ear of the sweaty young man, as he kept himself from writhing on her fingers, embedded deep inside him.   
“Does it hurt, Sherlock?”

“No!....But…”Sherlock chocked. “Stop… _touching_ me!.”

Irene was surprised, that with the amount of pleasure she had added to the boy’s bloodstream that he was not writhing in her sheets, screaming to be fucked harder.   
But no, instead he stopped her.

Once more forgetting his place, almost as if he asked for punishment, as if it would make things…better.   
Irene drew back, her body leaving Sherlock, drawing her finger from between his thighs.  
Then, with quick fingers she opened the knot in the leather that kept his hands tied before him, allowing them to fall to sides. With a practiced motion that did not allow any struggles she pulled his one leg over her shoulder, opening him with a steady grip. 

Then she let her other hand spank across the bottom of his ass. 

Sherlock screamed, while arching into her palm, his hand fisting the silk until it ripped with a satisfying, thick sound.   
Irene’s breath went faster.   
Sherlock’s cock was now rod-straight, deep red and leaking small droplets of fluids onto his stomach.   
Her next spank was harder.  
Sherlock arched up once more, his legs shivering at the ungrateful position, but the pleasure in his blood as well as his personal preferences made him hard and straining. 

Oh, how Irene liked her little pain-sluts. 

And this one struggled so beautifully against his own nature.   
Yes….he would be so much fun to travel with one day. 

But for now….

“Touch yourself, Sherlock”

For one delicious moment Irene thought he would resist, but the amount of protein she had injected into his blood now clouded his young brain, and his drive to come was now taking over his mind. 

His hand flew down to his own cock, realizing that it was too dry and went back into his red mouth where his long digits disappeared between his plush lips.   
By the gods, he was delicious just to watch. 

He wet the fingers with his tongue, just to grasp his cock once more and then pushing between the slippery digits again and again.   
Sherlock kept presenting his glowing red buttocks to the mistress, and she slipped her fingers, two this time between his cheeks, instantly followed by a sharp slap to his arse, and Sherlock’s whole body stiffened and then he came in dark, pearly streaks across his pale chest, his body stuttering impaled on her fingers as she slapped him through his orgasm, the boy biting back the screams, groaning between clenched lips. 

Sherlock collapsed, and Irene leaned forward, still deeply buried inside his body and bit him once more, tasting his aftershocks of pleasure as she rubbed his oversensitive Prostate, the cinnamon of the pain of his burning buttocks, and the general heaviness of his body. 

It was sublime. 

 

Irene left the next morning. 

She left Jean with very specific orders.

Sherlock was to be kept in one of the four chambers of the cellar, where he was to remain in his shackles and those chained to the wall. He was left with a rather comfortable bed, a source of light from the outside during the day, a desk and several pieces of paper as well as black chalk. No contact to anyone but his guards and the maid that brought the food and took away his bucket to cleanse. 

That’s how Sherlock was to wait for Irene to return. 

 

So Sherlock waited once more.   
First, he was still proud.   
Proud for standing up for his rights.   
Then there was slow, creeping anger.  
Anger at Irene.   
For leaving him here, like an animal, shackled, kept away from the outside. 

 

And the more months passed Sherlock’s mind started to scream inside his head, and he walked the same pathway again, like an animal, pacing the floors,   
And the anger turned towards himself. 

Of course he had to turn her down. But maybe…maybe there could have been another way? A compromise?

Sherlock feared for his sanity in those long, neverending days, knowing he had brought it upon himself for turning that witch down, and now she would keep him there for the end of his days, just drinking from him, letting his mind rot, maybe he should have…should have…

When Sherlock started to self harm, they tied his hands to his legs and finally they had to secure him to his bed. .

But Sherlock survived.   
He always did. 

 

Irene was gone for 14 months. 

By then Sherlock had reconsidered his answer to Irene many times.   
Many.  
MANY.  
Times. 

 

So when she asked him the same question again, upon her return, he had not raised his head and just nodded, shaky on his feet, happy to be out of his…cell.   
Irene had smiled and curled her hand between her fingers.   
“Good boy….” She whispered to him.

And Sherlock’s struggle for survival continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x
> 
>  
> 
> Ok, next chapter we are going back to Sherlock and John - cause I got slightly distracted here.  
> But I think there will be more interludes from Sherlock's life / survival at a later point in time.


	24. Addict

When John woke, the first thing he realized was that he was thirsty.   
Like, really _really_ thirsty.  
His mouth was sticky and felt like it had been covered with cotton balls all night, and his eyelashes were glued to one another, and with a slow rub he tried to wake himself, massaging life once more into his features. 

The next thing he noted was that he was not in his own bed.  
This mattress he was laying on was much harder, giving very little way to his body weight, and he was covered with a thin, but very soft and warming blanket. 

It took John a full 5 seconds to realize where he was. 

Sherlock’s bedroom. 

_Jesus Christ_

Panic shot like a flame through his body, burning his insides, and John took a deep breath as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, breathing deeply again and again, trying to ease the heavy weight on his chest.

And then he noticed the third thing. 

He was naked.  
His body was covered in bloody streaks and shiny film of what he suspected to be cum.   
And then of course: the slight pain of his own arsehole. 

Fantastic.   
John continued to rub his head, trying to piece together the clues of the previous night. 

Ah yes, Irene Adler had been here.   
The shame at the pictures that bubbled up from his subconscious made John Watson pull his mouth into a deep frown of distaste.  
He had been raped…once again.  
This time….by two…and he had…he had…  
Breathing became harder and harder as the memories night washed over him, and John pushed his blanket even further away from himself to get more air, to cool down…to….to….

John started up at the ceiling, cold and heat washing over his body in a steady rhythm, covering him in a fine layer of sheer sweat, and then he could feel his stomach clenching into a tight ball, and even though he had not eaten anything but fruit and vegetables for days, John started to retch.   
He pushed himself up, pressing his fist against his mouth as the acid of his stomach climbed up his throat, threatening to come out, and John tried to untangle his legs under the cover as fast as he could.

He made it out of the bed, his cold feet hitting the carpet that was spread out beneath him, and then John Watson sank to his knees, throwing up bile from his stomach as his head continued to turn, icy needles pressing between his shoulder blades, his hands and shivering as he held his weight away from the floor. 

Wrong.   
He felt wrong. 

The heaviness that had been with him for…well, since the revolution really, the dizziness and unhappiness seemed to take over his mind, and another panic attack took his breath away, and John curled up on the floor, coughing weakly, small bitter amounts of spit bubbling from the corners of his mouth, his whole body covered in what seemed to be cold fire. 

John Watson hardly noticed that the door was opened, and he could see the shadow of the vampire, which sent him into another panic attack, and then all he could hear was a faint “Watson…” before he lost consciousness. 

 

X

 

The next time John Watson woke was back in bed.   
This time, however, it was in a clean, white bed in a clean, white room, with a soothing, low beeping sound in the background. The air smelled faintly of old urine and disinfectant. 

It was an odour very familiar, very much like home. 

Hospital.

John cracked his eyes open, wetting his dry lips with his tongue as he turned his head on the bed, fasting his eyes on the beeping machine next to him.   
Dialysis machine.   
Right. 

John closed his eyes once more, trying to figure out why he was in a hospital and how he had gotten here. 

_Sherlock_

Everything came back to him slowly, from the horrendous night with Sherlock’s mistress to the next morning, when he had felt himself dissolve in panic, and finally his bodily reaction…

_Why was he here?_

John moved slowly, his whole body tired, but then again he felt…almost refreshed.   
Almost like he had been broken but now he was better.   
Somehow.   
John lifted his right arm to rub his face, noting that it was chained to the side of the bed with a long but sturdy manacle. His movements had set a couple of machines next to him into a frenzy of beeping sounds, and the door to his room opened silently, a young woman stepping in.   
John blinked twice, his head still foggy, but noting that he recognized the woman that had stepped in….

“Molly…?” John’s body reacted as slowly as his thoughts, and he was surprised at the slurring sound that came from his mouth, not like him at all. 

“John”. 

Molly flipped a switch at the dialysis machine, thankfully silencing the never-ending beeping, before her fingers lightly touched down onto John’s forehead, stroking back some of the errand hair that were plastered to his skin.   
“How do you feel?” She leaned forward, smiling slightly, but concern shining in her eyes.

John swallowed, stretching his body, not sure how to answer. 

“All right…I think….”  
John shook his head, eyes roaming over his bed, his tied hands, the needles seated deep in his flesh. When he lifted his eyes to search Molly’s face, he felt like his mind calmed once more.   
She looked sad. 

“Molly. Why am I here?” 

His reaction seemed slow, and for some reason he could hear himself drawl and a small rivulet of spit snaked down his chin. Within seconds Molly pulled a tissue from one of her pockets and carefully wiped his face, her smile softening her features. 

“Don’t worry John, everything is all right. It seems you did not react to well to the …. Proteins you received when being bitten, you have shown allergic long-term exposure symptoms.   
It was good that Sherlock brought you in when he did. “

She shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around his body in a motherly gesture.   
“It is a very _very_ rare occurrence, but it seems you are one in a million. Now we are cleaning out everything we can, another 2 hours or so on dialysis should hopefully do it.”

Her hands ran over his forehead once more time, and her brown eyes fixed on him.   
“I am sure Sherlock will explain it all to you. For now, maybe you should try to sleep some more.”

Her words reminded him how very tired he was, and he nodded as he settled back into the soft sheets, the white room diffusing around him once more.  
And John slept. 

 

X

The next time Dr. Watson woke, it was due to the quiet murmuring of people in his room.   
He shifted his body slightly, reluctant to open his eyes, body still heavy and weary.

“……I know he showed strong reactions to the protein, but I don’t see why it should harm him in low doses.”

Sherlock.  
John would by now recognize the deep baritone anywhere.

However it was a woman that answered him.   
Molly. 

“We ran a full blood panel. His dopamine and serotonin are at extremely low levels, while his inflammation parameters are elevated. If I did not know better, I would have guessed that I am looking either at the report of a long-term addict or an extremely depressed or schizophrenic individual. I believe it is the protein you have been injecting into him.”

“I want to see the lab results.”

John heard a shuffle on the linoleum floor, and then the well-known sound of a file being pulled from the bottom of his bed. 

Pages being turned.   
Silence. 

“Hmmmmm.”   
Sherlock

Then, all of the sudden John felt a cold hand on his arm, squeezing uncomfortably.   
He kept forgetting how silent and fast the bastard could be. 

“John. I know you are awake. What are your opinions on this, as a doctor?”  
Sherlock’s voice was much closer now, and with a flutter John opened his eyes, staring straight into the grey-green ones of the vampire he was to call master.   
He had been awake long enough to make himself a picture of what had been discussed, but his mind was too overwhelmed with the information, and all he could do was stare. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pushed the folder into his line of sight. 

“Here are the results. Have a look.”

All of the sudden Molly spoke up, her voice displaying a low, nervous flutter, but her shoulders were pushed back and she did not evade her eyes as Sherlock turned to her. 

“Addiction. His dopamine levels are close to those of an addict of psychostimulating drugs such as Alcohol, Cannabis or even Cocaine. In those cases dopamine levels are pushed up with the substance abuse, just to crash afterwards, forcing the body through depression, anxiousness and a level of craving depending on the drug. “

Sherlock let go of John, stepping away from the bed, his head tilted slightly to the side, and his voice was smooth as honey as he spoke up.  
The vampire’s speech was fast now, almost excited to a level that surprised and worried John.

“I see what you are getting at, Molly. With any of these substances, once they are in the blood stream they cross the blood-brain barrier, where they block the transporters that would normally receive dopamine and serotonin. According to these results the probability is high that the Protein delectiato has disabled the normal clearance levels for neurotransmitters, blocking the transporters that normally remove them from the synaptic cleft, forcing the dopamine and seratonin levels up to 2-3 times its normal levels.  
The problem is that when the protein normally clears the body, the dopamine levels would drop very low for a couple of days, after which they would be regulated to normal bodily levels once more.   
However, in John’s case, he had very large amounts of protein in his system, attacking his cells, which makes me believe that his body could not break down the pleasure protein.   
This is brilliant!”

Sherlock had turned quickly, his features pulled apart in a wide grin, staring at John and Molly, who could do nothing but return the gaze.   
It took a couple of seconds for Molly to swallow and nod, crossing her arms almost protective in front of her chest. 

“Yes. I think in John’s case it would have led to changes in his behaviour, either constant euphoria, or, what is more likely to a depressed state, lethargy, anxiousness as well as panic.”  
Her eyes wandered over to John, and there was a grimace on her face.

“Then again, all of those things could happen to a prisoner anyway, so it is hard to tell at this point in time.”

There was silence once more. 

John blinked.   
His mind felt much freer, much more _alive_ than it had for a long while, as if he had been released of the iron grip of the constant fear that had held him down.  
Had immobilized him. 

Then again, he had been abducted, imprisoned, enslaved and raped in the last month, he had lived through more than most people did in a lifetime. 

John Watson had seen people die.

He had tried to help and failed.   
Again and again. 

And then…then he had lost his freedom.   
He was a Bound-Servant

No wonder he was depressed. 

 

John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes, hold the gaze.   
A long second went by,   
And another. . 

Then Molly stepped up to his bed, thankfully breaking the eye contact between him and Sherlock to take hold of the file that still lay on the sheets between his hands.   
Untouched. 

Her voice was a low murmur, and she looked haunted.   
‘Well, I am going to run some more tests. We should be able to release John within the hour. I will hand you the file once you leave, Master Sherlock.”  
John could see Molly dancing on the tip of her toes, as she opened the door and turned back once more.

“However, and I think the doctors will agree with me – you might want to hold off on injecting any more protein into John until we have figured this out.”

Without another word she pulled the door closed behind her, leaving John and Sherlock staring at each other once more in the gleaming white of the hospital room.


	25. Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who leaves kudos or especially comments!  
> And for being so patient with my sporadic updates. 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> x

Sherlock focused on John for a long while, then he ripped himself away with a mental twitch that could be seen in his eyes, pushing his hands through his tussled curls.

“I need to…..” And with that he stormed out of the room. 

 

John swallowed, blinking a couple of time, taking a deep breath.  
A quick look around located a water bottle on the bed-side table and John reached out for it, grasping the cold plastic, opening the lid as if in a stupor.

Addiction.

It did explain….things. 

Of course he had been depressed. 

A swift course through the memories of the last month (had it only been a month? How was it possible? It felt like a whole life time…..) made John realize that he had not _fought_.

The first time he stroke back against a vampire in captivity had been in prison, resisting his blood being taken, standing up for his rights.   
Molly had been there.   
He had paid with pain. 

John remembered that he had decided after that to be careful before angering a vampire, their strength far superior to anything he could bring up against it.

Then Sherlock had picked him up.   
Forced to him to kneel.   
Laying down rules that had been harsh, more frightening than anything John had been expecting. 

Than again, of course he had known what would be coming.   
He heard the stories from vampire survivors, seen the abused bound-servants in the hospital, seen the fear and resignation in their eyes. 

Still.   
It is always one thing to know and another to experience. 

Sherlock had taken John’s freedom with a coldness in his eyes that had frozen John to the core.

Then he had raped him.   
Had forced him to participate.   
To _enjoy_ it. 

Yes.

And that was when it had started.   
His bodily reactions had been first, hallucinations, blacking out, his whole being revolted at what had been done to him. 

Still, John remembered the first time he had met Irene Adler, how he had walked in on her and Sherlock as they fed from the frightened young girl, like two wolves ripping apart a sheep.  
Then he had spoken up without a second thought.  
Fear had not then taken hold of him …yet.

John remembered paying with even more pain, pain unimaginable to a man that had not even spanked by his parents as a child. 

And that was the last thing Dr. John Hamish Watson had done that had made any kind of sense to him now. 

Because after that he had cowered. 

Mycroft had taken more of his hopes, had threatened him with ‘training’, which had horrified John more than he could say. 

But instead of planning, on fighting back, on doing anything….he had….  
He had….

Well. He had cleaned Sherlock’s apartment. 

Thoroughly. 

Sherlock had left for 9 whole days….he had not even thought of escape.  
Not seriously.   
Instead he had cleaned.   
Fed himself.   
And then he had the biggest panic attack he had ever had in his life. 

_Immobilized._

Molly was right. 

John Watson’s brain had pulled him into a depression, pressed his mind down to accept, to take abuse without even trying to gain back any more control. 

John nodded, resolute. 

The dialysis had cleared his blood.  
He was himself once more. 

No more Mr. Nice guy. 

 

 

Sherlock returned quickly, shoulders hunched, his hands kneading in front of his body.   
“The large blood panel should be back later today, they are rushing it, but until then….”   
The pale eyes of the vampire travelled up to John, recognizing his existence with a flash.

“Watson, I need more blood.”  
Sherlock stepped up quickly next to the bed, and John tensed, straightening his back as his chin sank down, the collar digging into his skin, as if he could protect himself from the vampire towering above him..

Sherlock stared, then pulled out three blood collection vials and a small needle. 

“Relax, Watson, I am not going to bite you. I need to run some more tests.”  
Sherlock clicked his tongue as if john should have guessed, and pulled the needle from its package, screwing it on the top of the first tube. 

_He’s not wearing any gloves_ was the ridiculous thought that went through the doctor’s brain, years of medical training bristling against the fact. 

Sherlock pulled a small rubber tourniquet from his coat pocket and a small packet of antiseptic wipes. 

John’s brain exhaled. Good. At least he would be somewhat sterile.

He stretched his arm and allowed Sherlock access to his veins in his elbow, laying back as Sherlock pushed the needle roughly but knowledgably under his skin and his dark red blood filled the tube with a gurgling sound. 

 

Once he was done, Sherlock pulled out the last tube, pushing them back into his pocket, and then he turned on his heels, storming out of the room once more, leaving the door wide open behind him. 

John blinked a couple of times, then he slowly released the tourniquet still around his upper arm, massaging the reddened flesh and pushed the sterile wipe over the small puncture, pressing down to help the wound to heal. 

His head was spinning.   
Too many things to consider. 

 

 

About 2 hours later Molly came back, removing the dialysis tubes and needles from the back of his hand, and pulling a key from her coat pocket to unlock John’s handcuffs.   
They fell to the side with a rattling sound. 

John stretched, following Molly with his eyes. 

She switched of the machines, tugging away all the tubes, unplugging and securing what was needed.   
Then she pulled the stethoscope that hung around her neck down, plugging it into her ears before she took hold of John’s right wrist, her fingers searching for his pulse. She lifted her other arm, staring at the small silver counter on her watch, counting silently with the seconds. 

“120 to 80. You are good to go.”  
Her brown eyes fluttered up to meet John’s blue ones, and they sank back down as she removed the stethoscope plugs from her ears, placing it back around her neck. 

“Sherlock is down in the labs, he told me to tell you to meet him there. S3 I believe. Do you know where it is?”

“Molly…”

“Your clothes are in the locker to the left. And if you want, there is a shower in the bathroom.”

“Molly. Look at me.”

The girl stopped her plugging and pulling, stilling her hands as she straightened and looked back at John.”

“How are you doing, Molly? Are you all right?”

An unsteady smile hushed over her features, and she relaxed. 

“I’m fine, John, really I am. I am working here now as a nurse and that is quite stressful. I used to be down in the morgue, but nowadays, since the revolution, there is a severe shortage of staff and I… well, I try to help wherever I can.”

John nodded.   
He remembered the vampire that had beaten him.  
Molly’s vampire.

“How is your vampire treating you? Eve, was it?”

Molly’s smile faltered, and her fingers kneaded at her side.  
“She is fine, John. I have been with her for 7 years now, and she is very…reasonable.” Her voice lowered down to a whisper:  
“John, I know it has been hard for you, and I know of Sherlock’s…reputation. And now the problem with the allergy and depression….” She fell silent, biting her lips before she continued:  
“I know it is hard. Believe me, I know. It has taken me years to accept my new position. But now I am back to work. I live. And I am ok with that.”

“I don’t want to accept my position.”

“I know John, I know. But you have to try.”   
Her soft voice was a whisper once more: “Maybe someday there will be another uprising. Someday, John. But you need to hold on until then.”

 

After that they had talked a while longer, John hungry for information from the outside, after having been cut off for so long.  
8.9 Million humans and vampires had died worldwide during the revolution.  
.  
That was the official figure given by the government.   
The whispers that Molly had heard spoke of much higher figures.  
Much, _much_ higher.   
The vampires had killed anyone that had fought and not proven any worth.   
A lot who still were worth something were now in the “care” of a vampire of their own, if their blood was any kind of nourishable, or they were kept in rehabilitation camps. 

And now the rules for humans were harsher than ever.   
General registration of every person and their whereabouts.   
A Curfew.   
Strict travel and passport control.   
Zero tolerance on any misconduct against vampires. 

Molly had tried not to sound bitter.   
She had lost friends.

And neither of them mentioned it again, but they both knew that they would have to hang on to survive this. 

There were so many dead.   
The least he could do was to continue to hold on.   
And fight again when the time was once more right.

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet. 

 

Molly left him soon after, excusing herself when her beeper went off, and she hurried out of the room. 

John sat for another couple of moments collecting himself, then he had climbed out of the bed, taken a long and leisurely shower, before he dressed himself and took the elevator down to the basement to look for his _master._

 

It took John a while to find Sherlock, most of the labs empty, and when he finally did locate him it was in a partially darkened lab, only the back illuminated.   
The vampire was huddled over a microscope, adding clear liquids to blood slides, mumbling under his breath.   
John stepped up, his hands fidgeting nervously by his side.   
He waited, took a breath, then cleared his throat.   
Sherlock gave a start, staring at John with clear eyes, then he focused back on his experiment.

“Ah, Watson, good. Over in the corner is some of your blood, I need you to run a PCR on a sample. The kit is in the fridge, one the bottom right. Let me know when it is set up and running.”

And with that Sherlock went back to his experiment, hissing and scratching findings into a tattered notebook that lay next to him. 

 

John did as he was told, and the setup was over quickly. He started the PCR, and after lingering for a couple of minutes he grew slightly bored. 

“I am done… _master_ , is there anything else I should do?”  
John cringed inwardly at the title, but he needed some time and space to think things through, to re-evaluate his situation, and taunting the vampire would not be helpful.   
Play the game.  
Wait for the loophole.

Sherlock’s head flew up once more, curls tumbling into the pale eyes.

“Hmmmmm….? Ok, sure. Let me just….” Sherlock stood abruptly, taking a couple more notes and then pushing the notebook into his jacket. 

“Let’s go home then, Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PCR - (polymerase chain reaction) - this is a biological technique to amplify a piece or strand of DNA.  
> There are kits which you can use on whole blood.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polymerase_chain_reaction


	26. Stockholm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks for sticking around, wow!
> 
> Anyway, being a biologist - the science in these chapters may or may not have gotten out of hand with me just a little.  
> They were not supposed to be part of the plot but now they kind of are, and please let me know if you ever want something explained more in depth or if you think I need to add more background information. 
> 
> Also: I FINALLY KNOW WHERE THIS STORY IS GOING!!!!!!  
> So that's exciting news!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> x

Sherlock and John took a cab, both staring out the window on opposite sides as they crept through the heavy traffic on a grey and miserably rainy autumn day. 

 

Once at home, Sherlock muttered something under his breath, too low for John to understand, and the vampire stormed off into the kitchen once more, leaving the man to close the door behind him.  
John waited for a short while for Sherlock to come back as he slowly peeled himself out of his damp jacket and hung it up to dry. When he realized that he would not get any orders he decided to change his clothes and look at the state of the bedroom. 

And to think. 

He had to fucking think.  
About what to do next.

 

 

“Mycroft. What do you want?” Sherlock scowled at the phone.  
He hated being disturbed when he was working on something, and John’s allergic reaction to his own venom was a rather exiting new problem to deal with. 

“Sherlock. I heard about your donor’s immune response to your delectia. You are not compatible. It’s going to be a problem when the board finds out.”

Sherlock snorted. Of course Mycroft knew. His spying system had improved since the revolution.  
This call had been almost three hours later than he would have expected though. 

“He is still a highly compatible donor in all other aspects. I am just not going to inject him.”

Mycroft snorted a rather inelegant sound.

“John Watson is a pleasure donor, Sherlock. Not a pain donor. Not a fear donor. Pleasure. And he is not gay. How is that going to work out for you then?”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

Mycroft’s took less than a second to answer, giving the hint that the older vampire had considered this decision himself.  
“You murdered your last donor because he cleaned up one of your experiments. Because he mouthed back at you. Watson is a highly intelligent member of the rebel alliance who had been depressed due to serotonin imbalance, but now he is fine once more.  
He hates you. With all his might.  
It is not going to work, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned back on his chair, looking at the open Bound-servants file in front of him. 

“Give me four weeks and I will do it. He is not going to want to leave.”

“No. I need to tell the board, and with him being such a high-profile blood type, they are going to want to take him from you. It’s your reputation. There is nothing I can do.”

“You can tell the board later.”

Mycroft snickered, the high, unnatural sound he had reserved when he tried to feign amusement.  
“No, Sherlock.”

“Two weeks then. You can hold them off that long. And then you can ask Watson personally if he wants to leave.”

There was silence.

“If you kill him, Sherlock, there will be a trial. And there will be nothing I can do for you this time, do you understand? Nothing. “

Sherlock hung up the phone. It was good enough. Mycroft would give him the two weeks without bothering him. 

Now to read up on Stockholme Syndrome once more.  
The last time he tried something similar on another human, it had gone rather wrong.  
Then again, that had been around 1600. There was so much more literature out there now. 

 

 

“Watson!” Sherlock’s voice boomed through the silent flat.  
With his fine hearing he could make out the hesitation to the call, then the socked feet padded down the stairs in reluctance.  
Still afraid then.  
Good. 

Sherlock was lounged back in his seat, the old brown leather creaking with every little movement. 

“Have a seat.”

John hesitated for a brief second before he sat down opposite the vampire. 

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock’s gaze ran up and down John’s frame and angrily set chin. 

He sucked in a breath audibly, and snapped his hands forward. 

“We need to talk, Watson. Now that there is the problem with the un-compatibility between my venom and your blood, we will need to change some of the rules.”

John stiffened at the word.  
Rules.  
He tried to clear his mind and fastened the stoic mask on his face.  
He wondered if Sherlock would take his clothes from him once more.  
Or turn him into a blood-cattle. 

 

“It is rather interesting, when my venom hits your blood, depending on the type of the protein, your cells react more and less with a full-blown allergic reaction as well as a strong rise in cortisol and norepinephrine, stress-hormones. Your body was under constant adrenalin influence. This is really a rare phenomenon, not documented in more than 10 cases of Bound-servant blood incompatibility with their masters this century. “  
Sherlock grinned down to the floor, his eyes flickering as his mind continued to race. 

John lifted his gaze, mouth curling downwards.  
Interesting? _Interesting?_  
This was his mind.  
It was his body they were talking about. 

He sat up a little straighter. 

“Anyway, this means we cannot continue my feeding with any sort of injections during or after the process.”

The vampire shifted and pointed towards the coffee table between them, a light brown file lying on the top. 

“These are all your results as well as your file on your Bound-servant status. Have a look, John. This is you.”

John’s eyes had followed Sherlock’s finger, staring at the pile of paper, wondering how to react to the offer.  
John.  
Sherlock had called him John.  
Not Watson. 

He leaned forward slowly, as if afraid that the crazy vampire would jump up suddenly and punish him for even thinking it was all right for him to look at what was offered to him.  
Sherlock leaned back with a smug smile, pulling his legs up onto the chair, now sitting like a large child as he watched the doctor open the wad of paper in front of him. 

The first couple of pages were just his newest blood results, as they had discussed in the hospital.  
> Seratonin and Dopamin levels were low. Explained the depression.  
Cortisol and norepinephrine- high. Explained his constant feeling of stress and tiredness.  
T cells, B cells high – his immune system had been fighting a constant battle against the injections of the vampire – allergic reaction.  
All of this he knew.  
Still, it felt good to have the proof in his hand, read the numbers, take in the information himself. 

He shuffled the papers, reading each piece of information hungrily.  
Sherlock watched patiently. 

The next page was the Bound-servant Report. 

From the Conservation of Human Servant records from the Ministry of Human Affairs of the UK. 

_Holy Shit._

John’s hands started to shake and he looked up at Sherlock questioningly. 

Sherlock grinned, his teeth glistening feral in the artificial light of the room. 

“Go ahead, Watson. Read it.”

It was just one sheet.  
One sheet of how the vampires graded Dr. John Watson as a Bound-Servant for his current master Sherlock Holmes. Compatibility. 

Official looking and all. 

John’s eyes fell on the numbers further below.

 

Status report for: Dr. John Hamish Watson. / Blood type: AB+  
Master: Sherlock Holmes (1447 AD)

_Please note that the scale reaches from 1 to 5, with 5 being the highest achievable value._

 

Blood Status / Compatibility 

Energetica  
4.8

Taste (general)  
4.2

Taste profile (as per Sherlock Holmes)  
Amor ( _Passion_ ) 4.5  
Iracundia ( _Anger_ ) 3.2  
Angor ( _Pain_ ) 2.0  
Timor ( _Fear_ 3.0  
Others: n/a 

 

John read it again and again. 

Then he looked up at Sherlock.

“What does this mean?”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. 

“What do YOU think it means, Watson?”

John blinked, trying to clear his mind.  
“Energetica. I suppose that means the amount of…energy you can get out of my blood with…feeding? And as the scale goes from 1-5, and my score is a 4.8, I am a….”  
John lowered the paper slowly, his whole body going numb once more. 

4.8.  
That was very high. 

Sherlock’s voice sounded almost soothing, if that was possible.  
“It means you are a very, very high profile donor. Anyone above 3.5 is considered high-profile. The normal range is between 2 and 3. 3.5 is already much sought after and restricted to the vampire aristocracy.  
But you, you John are a 4.8, something so rare and special, your blood almost like drinking from the fountain of eternal youth. Priceless.”

John blinked. 

Priceless. 

Fuck.  
 _Fuck._  
There had been something like reference in the way Sherlock had spoken about his blood, and it once more settled the unwanted feeling within him that this man would never let him go.

Never.  
Fucking not in his life. 

John straightened his shoulders once more and cocked his head. 

Later.  
He would have to think about it later. 

He looked down and continued.

“Ahmmm…..The taste profiles indicate that I am…I am…”

“Yes”. Sherlock leaned back, now crossing his legs under him, looking impossibly smug.  
Could that man never sit still?  
John swallowed, report shaking in his hands.  
Good god.  
It said about him, about Dr. John Hamish Watson that he was a…..

Sherlock’s voice was dark and smooth like chocolate as he answered in John’s stead.  
“Pleasure. You are a pleasure donor. You taste the very best when you forget yourself, when you experience unlimited satisfaction. It transforms your taste into something exquisite.”  
Sherlock leaned forward and stared at John’s large blue eyes that had widened as the vampire had continued to talk.  
And then Sherlock waited.  
Pointed his fingers once more at the report. 

“What else, Watson?”

John cleared his throat.  
His eyes wavered and then took in the numbers once more.  
Pleasure was…4.5, so fucking _high_ , however the other numbers were quite low in comparison.  
Something to be thankful for he supposed. 

“My fear and pain index are low, so I guess beating and raping me won’t taste as nice as if you….didn’t.” John could not keep the anger from flashing through his voice, his whole body wired like a spring. What did Sherlock intend in forcing him reading this out?

Sherlock’s eyes became dark for a moment, then he grinned.  
“Indeed.”

That was it. 

John closed the file with a snap and placed it back on the coffee table, leaning back stiffly.  
He had to keep his anger at the absurdity of this situation in check, or it would blow up at him. 

Sherlock had also leaned back, flipping his feet under his body, hugging his knees.  
Ridiculous.  
His voice had lost the tinge of painful teasing that had put John on edge, instead it sounded…sincere. 

“So, John, tell me what that means about our feeding session?”

John’s mind blanked for a moment, then his eyes darkened as he straightened himself.  
He was not going to play this game.  
No way. 

“I am not sure, _master_ ; please tell me what it means.”

Sherlock smirked. “It means first of all, we might have to switch to a simple feeding routine to start from, in which I would ask you to restrain yourself from feeling any fear. I know that there is pain in the initial bite, but I am sure….”Sherlock grinned darkly, then shook his head:” Well, I am sure that it won’t be too much of a problem once you get used to it. I suppose asking for passion in our first encounters may be….improbable, so we will hold off from that until there is another solution to his problem.  
Will that be satisfactory to you?”

John stared at the vampire opposite of him, unbelieving.  
“Sorry, you want to feed and rape from me without me feeling fear or pain?”  
John shook his head and could not supress a giggle.  
Ridiculous. 

The dark-curled vampire stared at John as if he was stupid.  
“No, of course not Watson, don’t be daft. I will restrain from sexual contact with you as long as I have figured out another way how to get you to feel passion during our sessions.”

“Right.” John felt dizzy. “So no sex then?”

Sherlock turned to him abruptly, his super-human speed once more startling John. 

“Unless that would be not in your Interest, John.” The dark voice had a definite purr to it. 

John was taken aback by the playfulness, but instantaneously shook his head.  
“That would be just fine, no sex, thank you, Sir.”

Sherlock’s face fell as if he had hoped for another answer.  
“Only until we figure out something else.”

He brooded over this a moment, then sprang right back into action.  
“With your knowledgebase in research I am going to employ you to help me in the hospital. I have several tests still to run, and Molly also suggested it would be better to take you out of the house more often.”

John felt an instant flush of relief to Molly.  
And the low fire of opportunity started to burn in his belly. 

“Today you started the first runs of PCR on your blood, I am sure that there is a mutation on one of the B-proteins or receptor chains, but I have not been able to figure it out, most ‘high-profile’donor blood I have been able to get my hands on was 3.9 compatibility, Mycroft does not share his pets with me anymore after I spoiled his last one….”

John started to tune out.  
Jesus.  
Sherlock was going to take him out.  
He could start making plans. 

“….and if I can prove that, the venom already being an addictive substance, pulls higher allergic reaction rates from a donor due to excessive use, as to protect the longevity of the donor and therefore the healthy supply of precious blood.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. 

“And that would mean that your reaction is not really out of the ordinary for such a high compatibility rate, your chemistry being such a rarity.” He nodded, obviously very pleased with himself. 

“Right. Good.” John tried to be helpful. He just felt like his whole life had been turned around in one go. 

“Sherlock studied John for a moment, then leaned back, stiff, legs on the floor, his hands folded under his chin. “Now let’s discuss punishments, Watson.”

John swallowed. He gave a short nod.  
Of course. 

“I do of course understand that you are of the rebel alliance and hate all your vampire overlords, blah blah blah, but I cannot have you run from me.  
It is not going to happen.  
However, the taste of fear and submission does not suit you. If I kept you constantly worrying about punishment, cowering, bound or beaten, you would fear.  
And you would hate.  
And that would sour your blood.  
Permanently.  
Therefore, John Watson, if you run, you won’t suffer for it.  
But others will.”

John blanched and curled his fists.  
Ah. There was the Sherlock he remembered. 

“If you run Watson, and if it is just to the other end of London, for every hour that you are gone and not available to me, your parents will receive five lashes with a bullwhip each. Your sister will spend a year in prison for every day that you are not in my possession.  
And Molly, of course, for giving me just the idea of giving you enough freedom to escape…Eve is very creative. And I will force you to watch, Watson, don’t think that I won’t. “  
Sherlock was absolutely still now, whole body like a marble figurine, not moving a single muscle. 

“If you kill yourself, they will die. If you try to kill me…well, let’s just say that what I would do to you would go beyond anything you could ever imagine. Do you understand my conditions, Watson?”

John let out a shuddering breath that he had not realized he had been holding. 

“Yes.”

He was proud that his voice did not waver as he answered. 

He needed some time to fucking _think_!


	27. A New Life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks for your comments and kudos, everyone seems to be happy we are back to John and Sherlock!  
> And I think you will like where the two of them are heading from now on!
> 
>  
> 
> x

The day was long and tense, more from John’s side than Sherlock’s, but the vampire’s head was spinning with the new puzzle of getting John Watson, the freedom fighter, whose blood was pure ambrosia to fall in love with him.   
And at this point everything else faded into the background in comparison.

Sherlock knew that having John Watson feeling pleasure, feeling sexual release during their drinking session would heighten the energy as well as satisfaction he could take from a feeding.   
The energy would last him longer as well. 

And having played with John for over a month now, he knew that he could taste resentment and pain very clearly in the heady blood, and it flattened the taste from its ripeness that the pleasure brought along with it.  
Oh, John was so rare _because_ each and every one of his emotions was so clearly displayed in his aroma, and Sherlock to want to thrive for the purest taste, his personal best high.   
Because John Watson’s blood did make him high, heady, levelled him in ways nothing had for a long time. 

Now of course he would have to get John into feeling pleasure when he was drinking. 

Sherlock grinned, knowing that by now a sort of Pavlovian Reflex would have started to wire John’s brain into associating his bite with pleasure.  
He loved the simple biology of it, also relishing that John was not aware of this fact yet.

Sherlock had drunk from John mostly in a chemically induced arousal state, and with several bites and feeding sessions John’s brain would by now start associating a vampire’s bite with pleasure.   
It would of course be in rather low levels, but the reflex would be something that John would not be able to fight, just like a dog could not stop itself from drooling when offered food. 

It was a good place to start. 

Furthermore, Sherlock decided he would treat John as ‘humanely’ as it was possible to him, and not molest him during their first two or three feedings. 

John would feel gratitude.   
He was only human and his life was in the hands of Sherlock. 

Stockholme Syndrome.   
Such a beautiful concept. 

 

Sherlock wondered how he would to continue from there, and for a second the idea of bringing a human female into their feeding, for John to take her, fuck her as Sherlock would be looming over him to bite and feed when John pumped his seed into the woman, tasting the orgasm ripping through John sweeten his taste.

Sherlock giggled, running his fingers along his plush lower lip.

He would enjoy the display, but he realized that John was too little of an… exhibitionist for him to find this kind of display pleasurable. He was also too much of a gentleman, hero even, to take a woman willingly in front of Sherlock and to relax enough to being bitten when he came.

Maybe later. 

Sherlock’s eyes shifted over John Watson’s medical file that was still on the coffee table, continuing kneading his lips. 

What else could he do…..?

 

x

John woke the next day feeling surprisingly fresh and full of energy, his head still overwhelmed with his situation but his body feeling better than it had in weeks.   
Obviously the cleansing of his blood had done him a world of good. 

John got out of bed slowly, changing from his night wear into his day clothes, head twirling over the changes that had happened in the last 24 hours.   
He realized that Sherlock had seemingly changed his behaviour 180 degrees, all of the sudden…the vampire not friendly….but somehow more sane.   
If that was possible.  
Also, with just three short sentences he destroyed all of John’s budding plans of escape, placing the threat on the life of his family, Mum, Dad and Harry in front of him, the threat to hurt them or Molly.   
John could not let that happen. 

Sherlock had taken escape away with a simplicity that was mind-staggering. 

That left him with three options.   
To die.   
To kill Sherlock (and then die).   
To wait. 

Sherlock had told him that if he tried to commit suicide or to kill him, his family would also suffer.   
That was no good. 

And attacking Sherlock.   
Well….

 

John would have to wait.   
For Sherlock to let his guard down.   
To get more freedom. 

He would have to be very, very patient. 

And just as Molly had said: “One day the human’s would rise again.”

 

With those heavy thoughts John took a little longer in the bathroom to freshen up before he went downstairs to face the life he had chosen for himself. 

 

He was glad when Sherlock just turned at him for a short second when he came down and then ignored him as John made himself a cup of tea and some toast.   
John pushed the jam into the back of the top drawer, and he felt relieved when he saw that the blood and body parts had been placed into the lower segments of the fridge.  
He munched on his toast silently, sitting in the corner of the kitchen, painfully aware of the fact that Sherlock was going through his notebook by his experiment section. 

 

“You should probably go shopping soon. “

John tried hard not to flinch. He had just not expected the deep voice all of the sudden, saying something as trivial as that. 

“Sorry, what? Master?”  
John laid down his toast and faced the pale vampire. 

Sherlock was wearing tight, black woollen pants and a shirt that was opened in the front, leaving a glimpse on the pale, white flesh of Sherlock’s chest.   
John stared for a moment until he realized what he was doing, eyes darting away and up to the vampire’s face, who was returning his gaze with those pale, stormy eyes. 

“You are running out of groceries, and to be honest, ordering your food online for staggering prices seems rather thick when there is a perfectly good store just around the corner.   
And as I can see you running low on toast, I would suggest you go shopping after I have fed.”

John tensed at the word fed, but forced himself to exhale.   
Of course Sherlock still needed to feed. 

“Come here, Watson.”

John stood still, then ripped himself out of his state of mind, taking a step towards the vampire.   
“Here? Now?”

Sherlock snorted and waved a dismissive hand.   
“I have loads of work to do today, and I am in a hurry. Back to me, lean your head to the side.”

John could feel the cold sweat accumulate on his forehead, but he ignored it, stepping up to his master. He clenched his hands at his sides as he turned, and bowed his head, just as Sherlock had told him to. 

_You have chosen this life. Live it._

Sherlock drew John back against his long, slender frame, curling his left arm around him possessively as his right hand stroked John’s side of his bare neck, pushing some of his hairs away.   
John’s breath came fast and hitched and he told himself to calm down, to relax. He knew how much more it hurt when he was tense. 

Sherlock stroked John’s neck, suddenly flicking his tongue out and curling it over John’s exposed skin, drawing circles where he would bite, soaking the flesh in a numbing agent. 

John relaxed slightly, standing stiffly as Sherlock’s tongue gild along his too hot skin, and to his own endless embarrassment and horror John’s cock stared to twitch in his pants.   
Sherlock’s bite was once more un-anticipated, but instead of the sharp pain that he had waited for, there was a damp pressure on his skin and then a short pinch that turned into electricity that made it’s way into his blood stream, John arching his back away from the bite, his cock now more than half-hard. 

Whatever John Watson had anticipated for this first, un-laced bite, this was not it. 

Sherlock held him fast, did not allow the winding donor to get away from him as he felt the hot blood gash into his mouth and slowly roll down over his tongue into his throat, the taste of Watson so pure, so heady. Finally he swallowed, and then he took four more hard pulls and disconnected, closing the punctures with a twirl of his tongue. 

John could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing into his backside, and his own cock had flagged slightly again, but he was aware of the closeness, of the hands on his hot skin, the stray curls tickling the side of his face.   
So close. 

Sherlock nuzzled his neck for a moment longer, than he released John and gave him a little shove, voice raspy as dark: “You can do your shopping now, Watson. And don’t forget to bring along some cinnamon.”

John stumbled a couple of steps, almost missing the cool fingers against his skin, bright red spots dancing on his cheeks as he turned to Sherlock.   
The slender vampire had turned back to his samples on the table, his erection visibly tenting his trousers. Sherlock ignored it, pulling the notebook closer to him, his fingers fluttering too fast over the table. 

“Right” was all that John could mumble, and he turned and fled the living room.


	28. The Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I really wanted to update this sooner. 
> 
> Happy New Year to you all! 
> 
>  
> 
> x

The following week was rather quiet – Sherlock dragged John along to the hospital at all hours of the day, sometimes at 4pm in the afternoon, then once at 2 am in the morning when he had an idea after reading the previous results, and John trotted along, running tests, PCR’s, Gels, Western Blots, anything Sherlock threw at him.   
At least paying attention in the lab and his own continuous research when he studied vampires paid off now. 

 

Physically, Sherlock kept away from him. 

He fed every 2 days, and each time it had been either in the kitchen or the living room, standing, a quick affair in which John could always see the straining hard-on of the vampire.   
His own erections were less prominent than they had been with the first bite after the kidney-cleanse, but for some reason whenever Sherlock would wave him over to bite him, a stream of need would sink between his legs before he could even think about it. 

However, John had started to jerk off before sleeping every night, thinking hard about blond, big-breasted women riding him, groaning as he imagined them sliding up and down his cock, and the dark curls of his god-damn _master_ never made a fucking appearance.   
They did _NOT_.

So John decided to ignore his erections as best as he could, labelling them a reflex in his mind.   
He would not blame his body for something he could do nothing about. 

However it did make him crazy that Sherlock would walk around in different types of undress more and more.   
Maybe he had never noticed before, but the vampire would never button his dress-shirts unless they went out, a column of pale, hairless marbled flesh shining whenever he turned.   
Twice John ran into him as he came out of the shower, in all his glorious nakedness, and each time John would blush profusely, turning away for Sherlock’s modesty who apparently never heard that fucking word in his life before. 

It bugged John that he would catch himself looking twice at the pale skin, knowing that not being gay had nothing to do with feeling lonely and touch-depraved.

But then the reality of what Sherlock had done to him would flash back, and he would cringe in disgust at his own thoughts. 

 

The fourth time Sherlock called him, John had been sitting in the living room, watching telly, and Sherlock could see that his reaction had lost the fear it had held when they came back last week.   
John was comfortable around him.   
Not afraid.

Relaxed.

Good.

The vampire sat in the armchair opposite to John as he turned off the TV. 

The doctor turned towards him, eyes falling onto the folder in Sherlock’s hands. 

A brown folder.   
Unmarked.

The vampire said nothing as he held out the paper, nodding at John to take it. 

John swallowed, not sure what to expect as he slowly opened it, his eyes immediately falling on the picture on the first page. 

_Harry_

John swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to Sherlock’s face which was set in stone, eyes dark, unreadable.   
“What is this?”  
His voice sounded hoarse to himself as he brought the paper closer, seeing his sister in an apparent prison setting, pictures taken from side and front, tear-streaks running down her face.

She looked drunk. 

John scanned the report beneath.  
It was dated the day before yesterday.  
 _Fuck_.

Intoxication. Unregsitered Alcohol-abuse. 

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

“She was picked up at an unregistered bar, John. Her alcohol levels show that she is a regular drinker. At the moment it looks like she will get 10 years of labour.”

John dropped the folder, kneading his right hand over his eyes. 

10 years.

Harry…..

“Why are you showing me this?” John’s voice was tired as he handed the folder back to Sherlock.   
He felt bitter, sad, tired.   
Like something else had shattered in the already bombed-out remnants of his mind.   
Nothing he had ever done had made a difference. 

Sherlock watched John as the man’s emotions ran over his face.  
He loved how easy he was to read.   
Somewhat predictable though.

He set his leg over the other and folded his hands, his eyes never leaving his servant.   
“I can help her, John. Help reduce her sentence. Maybe get her into a low-security prison.”

John’s eyes rose.   
Something like hope flashed over his features.   
Also – resentment.   
Interesting. 

‘Why?” John took a deep breath. “Why would you do that for me? For her?”

Sherlock leaned back, face a blank mask. Then his mouth pulled into a smile, his eyes hooded.   
“I would want something in return. For the inconvenience. “

John’s body flushed cold, then hot.   
He straightened himself.   
Of course it would be this.   
What else had he expected?

“Of course. And what might you want from me?”

His hand that was still grasping the folder that was shaking in his hands.

What a ridiculous situation. His sister was in prison, and here Sherlock wanted to gamble with him for her life.   
Well, not really gamble. John would do whatever Sherlock asked of him. 

“I am in sexual need…” John tensed, whole body going rigid….”and I am sick and tired of taking myself in hand after feeding. Vampires are highly sexualised beings, as boring as that may be, but without some kind of release after taking in additional energy I feel less satisfied and it is not the state to be in when the suitable donor is around.   
It generates mood swings and burst of anger, and believe me, you don’t want to be around me when they set in.   
In exchange for looking into your sister’s sentence, I want you to manually stimulate me during the next couple of feeding session.”

John let out a sharp exhale.   
They were back to the sex about as fast as he thought they would be. 

Sherlock continued to ramble: “Nothing else will happen, I assure you, but I need you to free your head of resentment, anger or whatever else you may feel for me, so that the blood during the bite will be untainted.”

The vampire knew it was a lot to ask of anyone. He leaned forward to retract Harry’s folder from John’s stiff fingers.   
He laid it on the coffee table between them.

The plain, brown paper seemed to be mocking John.   
His mind was surprisingly sharp however. 

“You want me to jerk you off? For getting my sister out of jail?”

Sherlock grimaced.   
“Of course not, Watson, don’t be intentionally slow. I want you to jerk me off as an act of gratitude that I will _try_ to reduce her sentence. Make it easier for her.”

“No deal” John’s voice was a hiss. “If you can show me, _proof_ to me that you can get her reduced time, no wait, I want her _out_ , I know you can ask Mycroft to do it, and then I will do it for you.”

Sherlock’s mouth had twisted down.   
John didn’t fucking care.   
However, the vampire continued to shake his head. 

“No. I already talked to Mycroft. He can get her two years labour in a low-security food-production plant. And believe me, it was not easy. However, if you want me to talk to Mycroft again, if you want him to change her sentence, then you will do this for me.”

John swallowed, anger and hatred as well as frustration curling in his stomach. 

How could Harry have been so stupid? How?  
And how could he be so useless when it came to helping her?

But two years…..two years instead of ten….  
It _was_ a difference.   
And he could make it. 

By prostituting himself.   
Simple. 

Just a hand-job.   
He could do that.   
He had done more in the past, after all, with nothing in return. 

John nodded, his reaction hard and decisive. 

 

Sherlock stood fast.  
“Good, I am glad you agree. I want to do it on the sofa.”

He crossed the living room and sat down with a loud thwack, his shirt falling completely open as he leaned back into the old leather of the couch, spreading his legs, an almost school-boy grin spreading his face. 

 

John felt numb as he got up and crossed the room to sit next to Sherlock.   
It had gone so fast once more, from discussing the life of hers sister to ….this.   
Not that it had been a real discussion really.   
It had not even been an offer.   
For it had been nothing that he could have refused after all. 

And now Sherlock wanted him to …what?  
Open his trousers?  
Jerk him off?  
He felt sick.  
He needed a drink of water. 

“I’m….” his thoughts were racing.   
“I’m going to get lube. There is some in the bathroom.”

And John Watson fled. 

Sherlock let him.   
He knew the man needed to get his emotions under control.  
He would taste better if he did. 

 

It took John about 5 minutes of deep, controlled breaths and several splashes of cold water on his neck before he went back down to face the vampire.

He almost forgot the lube.

John’s steps were heavy as he walked down into the living room. 

Sherlock had not moved, still taking up half of the sofa, his stormy eyes following the bound-servant as he made his way back down the stairs. 

Both men stared at each other, and then John gave himself a mental push and crossed the room.   
He had decided to do this like a soldier would who had gotten a hard task.   
Detach himself from his body.   
Focus on the task at hand.   
Do it.   
Continue with his life.   
Simple.

Sherlock’s eyes followed him as he sat down next to him, unreadable.  
His trousers were already slightly tented, even though John tried not to focus on them.   
Instead he listened to the creaking of the old leather stretched underneath him.

He took a deep breath, hands clutching the bottle of lube.

All right then. 

Sherlock continued to stare at him.

John swallowed. “Ok. How do you want to do this?”

Sherlock studied him, face a mask.   
“First I would suggest you think of something pleasant, John, as you know I can taste most of your emotions when feeding. And right now you look like you bit into a bitter fruit. It does not look very appetizing. 

“Fuck you. “

John could not hold himself back. It had been on his tongue for a while now, and he really did not care what Sherlock did to him. If he beat him, it would spoil his taste, after all.   
Sherlock grinned and faster than John could follow he pulled him close at his collar and then pushed him down onto the sofa, lounging next to him. 

Then the vampire leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on John’s closed lips. 

“What the fuck….” John slid back, pressing away from Sherlock. 

The vampire followed his movements with slit eyes, holding him down with an iron grip that he softened when John started to struggle in earnest. 

“This is going to relax you and me, John. All I want you is to kiss me, just let me lead the way. And right after I will call Mycroft, and Harry will be taken care of. Just relax.”

John closed his eyes and pushed out a sharp exhale. 

God damn Harry.   
Always getting herself into trouble.   
Always hoping that someone would get her out of it. 

“You said nothing about kissing.”  
He knew he would lose any argument, but he needed to make himself heard.

“I said I would not touch you. But this….this is foreplay. For me. And I am not hurting you. Just indulge me.”

John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock shift closer once more, leaning in and then the cold but somehow soft, plump lips were gliding along his own as Sherlock’s hand stroked his neck, pulling him closer.   
He stayed still, keeping his mouth slack, allowing Sherlock to open his mouth with his cold tongue, gliding into him, not participating but not fighting the invasion either.

Emptying his mind of hate and anger at the kiss, not less brutal than if he had been forcefully held down and violated.   
This was just a body.   
Traded for his sister.   
Nothing else. 

John tried to clear his mind but Sherlock was now climbing on top of him, grinding his growing erection into his crotch.  
He pulled back slightly and grid his teeth, keeping his eyes closed.   
His traitorous body however reacted to the stimulus, the soft touches and by now well-known coolness of the lips, a body starved for attention and now receiving it. 

Sherlock leaned forward and gently pressed his head back, allowing it to lean fully on the sofa’s edge, his own long limps covering him.   
Caging him. 

John could not keep his breath from hitching in fear as pictures of abuse flooded his mind, eyes flying open, body stiffening under cold fingers.   
Sherlock kissed him a little longer, then pulled back. 

“Relax, Watson.”

“You are crowding me.” John tried not to sound accusing, but he was not sure if he was successful.

The vampire stared at him for a moment, then leaned back, releasing him all of the sudden. 

“Fine. You can be on top of that is better for you.”

The vampire sat back up, pupils large and bottomless, a hardly repressed hunger shining in the eyes. 

John pushed himself up from the sofa.   
He really just wanted to get this over with.   
He studied the vampire for a moment, then gave his brain a push. 

His hand went straight between Sherlock’s legs, whose breath stopped for a moment.   
John could feel the straining hard-on between the vampire’s legs. 

With a conscious decision he opened the dark, woollen trousers and pushed the white pants beneath down, freeing Sherlock’s cock from their confinement. 

Keeping his distaste under control was hard. 

John turned to grab the bottle of lube, opening the cap with a snap and smothering his hands in the cool, sticky liquid.  
He heard the sharp intake of breath as he grabbed Sherlock’s cock with one hand, aware of how _cold_ it was in his fingers, and when looked up, he could see the descended fangs and hungry look in the vampire’s face. 

John tried to ignore the obvious lust that was wavering off Sherlock like heat, stroking the hard erection that had produced a drop of pre-come on the tip, sliding his closed fist all the way down the cock.  
John focused on Sherlock’s face, eyes fluttered closed as the vampire let his head sink back on the sofa, John’s fist rising and falling in a steady rhythm, working it almost absent-mindedly the way he would handle his own cock in the evening.   
He tried to kept tried to keep his mind disconnected as Sherlock started to writhe under him, pumping his slippery hand faster and faster, and soon Sherlock’s hips rose in rhythm with the strokes, up and down, up and down, like some kind of clock-work.  
The vampire was breathing fast, his eyes flying open, and then within the blink of an eye he grabbed John by his collar and pulled him close, nuzzling his mouth along his hot skin over his collar and finally digging his teeth into the groove of his neck.  
The bite was hard and fast, this time not numbed, but the pain was still mixed with pleasure in John’s brain and his erection strained against his pants, hard and needy, and then Sherlock sucked as he spurted his seed over John’s hands, cold and sticky, growling as his tongue gild along his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat mixed with the heady scents that were so very John. 

It was over in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, and as Sherlock sank back John waited for a moment, waiting for the vampire’s erection to soften in his fingers as he pulled away, wincing at the points of pressure along his shoulders where Sherlock had dug his fingers into his flesh. 

John kept himself from wiping the cold seed against his shirt and waited to be released, then he stood and left the room to wash himself. 

Sherlock never said a word as the bound-servant left the room.


	29. Rules and Regulations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys.  
> This is a plotty chapter and I had to wrap my head around it for some time, but I think I got it.  
> Also, I wanted to wait out Season 3 to maybe integrate some John/Sherlock relationship in this fic. 
> 
> ....But then again, maybe not.....
> 
> All I am saying is....no hug. 
> 
> So imagine my Sherlock/John staying on the S1/2 wave, because I prefer it that way.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again so much for everyone that leaves comments and kudos, you are the ones that make this fic continue to happen!
> 
>  
> 
> x

John was bored.  
There was really no other way to put this.  
After his last sexual encounter with Sherlock Holmes he had withdrawn himself to the bathroom, taking a long shower, washing away the blood from his neck and the cold, sticky seed from his fingers.  
He thought about hiding in his room as he would have done when he was a child, but decided against it. Instead he went back to the living room where Sherlock was still splayed on the sofa, eyes closed and had a look at the mostly clean kitchen. 

That was the thing.  
John loved cleanliness, but once a room was deemed clean, he did not feel like going over it again. 

So he sat down once more where he had sat before, leaving the telly turned on just for the flat to be less silent, hands sifting through the newspapers that were stacked next to the coffee table and opened one.  
Not like there was anything else to do here. 

 

Sherlock stuck to the two day feeding regiment, and he started to flit in and out of the apartment at all times of the day now, leaving John by himself.  
John was not sure whether he should be glad about it or not.  
At the moment, he opted for the first. 

Two days after their _deal_ , Sherlock handed John a clear, crisp envelope, eyes shining as he watched John open it slowly, pulling out the law enforcement sheet.  
The name on the top was Harriet Penelope Watson; her crime was indicated as two run-registered alcohol abuses within the stretch of a couple of days.  
21 months, low security prison.  
John scanned the paper.  
There was no mention of long-term alcohol abuse. 

Still, 21 months seemed so very long. 

But Sherlock had held his part of the deal.  
John carefully placed the folded paper back into the envelope and handed it back to Sherlock.  
They did not talk about it anymore.

That evening it was easier to masturbate the vampire, the ability to empty his head and keep himself distance from the act making him wonder if this was how whores dealt with their clients.  
He was sure it was.  
For some reason it did not make him feel more dirty than he had before.  
Just another way of coping. 

 

Sherlock got more jittery around him. 

At least John believed it was so, maybe it was his changed perception of the vampire.  
He used to look at Sherlock with fear and anger, and at this point in time something like quiet resignation had set in. In his head John reminded himself of stories he had read as a child, where a soldier had to infiltrate his enemies and play along for years before he could take someone out.  
In his head, in his fantasy world, that was what he was.  
A soldier waiting for the day he could make a change. 

For some very strange reason it helped him deal with his situation. 

 

X  
 _4 days later_

 

John was reading the papers when Sherlock placed his long, gangly limps on the sofa, his red silken dressing gown trailing behind him, giving John a good eyeful of the vampire’s naked, pale chest.  
There were several minutes of awkward silence in which John tried to concentrate on his current copy of The Times, fully aware of the stare that Sherlock gave him. 

Suddenly the vampire spoke, voice deep and curious.  
“You don’t talk much.”

John blinked, raising his gaze as he lowered the paper to his lap.  
He was not sure how to answer, his eyes flicking around the room.  
Yes. Sherlock was actually talking to him.  
He cleared his throat before he answered: “I don’t have anything to say.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“You are a doctor, an anti-vampire rebel, you are politically interested, and you have started to read every paper I have in this flat. How can you have nothing to say?”

John leaned his head against his hand, staring at the vampire that had sat up, eyes glowing with curiosity. “Nothing I would want to talk about you would want to hear.”

Sherlock grinned and flopped back.  
“Try me.”

John swallowed, creaking his neck.  
He felt a headache coming on.

“You see, Sherlock, here is the thing. The day you brought me here, to this flat, you told me that I should not speak unless spoken to. That I was to call you master. Not to question any of your motives or requests. You made it very clear I was your property, nothing else. I have real problems now confining to you what I really think. As you know, pain is not really my thing.”

Sherlock snorted, waving a hand dismissively as he walked over the coffee table, looking at his books on the top of the shelves.  
“That was weeks ago! I had to make sure that you knew your place when arriving here. But things have changed. There are new facts. I have now even restrained from touching you, allowing you the freedom you demanded. Stop being so very daft, John. It bores me.”

The taller vampire turned to John, glowering at him on top of the coffee table, then made a ridiculous little jump down the floor.  
With a swift movement Sherlock tumbled his curls as if frustrated then slumped back on to the sofa with a pained woof from the old leather. 

John stared at Sherlock.  
Silence. 

“What were you thinking about?”  
Voice dark, silken.  
Almost a purr. 

John’s eyes narrowed. He realized that Sherlock may just be as bored as he was.  
He let out a long sigh, opening the papers once more with a smack. 

“I was reading about the government setting up a peace treaty with China, about the flood in middle Europe and the color of Madame Magnusens dress at the European leader meeting in Paris.”

He lowered the paper to his lap once more.

“It was red.  
Some say it was vulgar.  
I personally liked it.”

Sarcasm.

Sherlock snorted as his eyes flicked to the human, scanning him.  
“Bah, she is fucking Mycroft and the President of Germany, Merkel or whatever her name is, and her vampire status and vast amounts of land will not keep her from getting burned when she finally decides to blackmail our dear leader with the photos she keeps taking of him.”

John blinked, shaking his head. He was not fully up to date on all the vampire gossip, but he had been watching more crap telly lately, and that had _definitely_ never been mentioned. 

“How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock twisted in the sofa like a snake, turning onto his stomach as he tried to pull his long limps under him. 

“Oh please. What else?”

John peeled his eyes of the blood-colored gown that had slipped to the side, leaving a trace of pale flesh in the wake, a stark contrast to the red material. Quickly he flipped through the pages, wondering what had caught his eye. 

The article about Bound-Servants…..

No. 

Another flip.  
And another. 

“They are expecting the coldest winter of centuries in the US.”

Sherlock snorted.  
“Human’s have been polluting this planet for more than a century, leading to molten ice caps, increased solar radiation, additional moisture in the air, shifting the positions of the jet stream, blah blah blah. I am not interested talking about the weather, John.”

John nodded.  
“Right.”  
He had been interested in activism in his youth, but the revolution….it had shifted his priorities.  
Still, he was surprised Sherlock knew about global warming. 

“Tell me what you think about the new Bound-Servant Law?”

The vampire was still lying on his stomach, head turned to the wall, voice slightly muffled. 

John stilled.  
He opened the third page.  
So that was what Sherlock had been after all along.  
The article took half the page and he had read it twice.

He was really not interested in discussing it. 

 

“Read it to me.”

John took a deep breath.  
An order.  
Fine.

_“New Bound-Servant Law to be released in the New Year._  
London – The trend for a world-wide Bound-Servant Control System has been part of ongoing discussion between the leaders of the world, and England will be the first in the New Year to implement the first decree.  
Mycroft Holmes spoke against the current lax system and the many loop-holes as well as the lacking and insufficient communications between the countries and has urged to see general laws in place. Before the revolution the last hearing showed the differences in opinions, but now Holmes is confident that the upraise and clear need of more control will convince especially the Presidents of China and the United States that better overview will be necessary for everybody’s well-being.  
As of the 1st of January of 2014, ALL samples that are currently in the data banks will be tested for donor status and filed. Bound-Servants of a donor status of 3.5 and higher are to be called into service without fail.  
What however has upset many within the British vampire community, that a new limit for the amount of personal bound-servants per vampire master shall be implemented as of January 1st.  
The number will be dependent on the influence and necessity of the Master’s role in parliament or otherwise.  
However a number is yet to be released.  
Mycroft Holmes has informed the author that no vampire citizen shall ever be left in need for a compatible donor once the new system is enforced.  
The exact wording of the law is still not available for the press, but should be accessible for the vampire community as of December 15th this year.” 

John lowered the paper.  
More security.  
He felt like the giant web of the Holmes was spreading over the planet, slowly, carefully, all just to show him that he could never escape.  
But that was of course bullshit.  
This was not about him. 

The smoky, dark voice pulled him from his thoughts.  
“Mycroft also wanted to add something like a time-frame that each donor has to be alive under his or her Masters custody as well as a cruelty clause according to the donors taste profile.”

Sherlock stood all of the sudden, eyes fixed on John.

“But then, this is only the first degree, a rule that has never been implied on vampires before, and believe it or not John, some of the vampires are not happy about it.  
Not at all.  
Oh, I love when Mycroft gets between the fronts.”

John’s mouth was dry as his eyes fixed on the dangling belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown that now touched one of naked feet, keeping his eyes lowered as the vampire scrutinized him, reading him.

Ivory skin.  
Pale. 

“What is your option, Watson?”

John closed his eyes and shook his head.  
“For Christ Sakes, Sherlock….”

“Come on. I want to know what you, a donor, think about his. You can tell me what I can’t see. I have not been human for a very long time….”

_Maybe never_  
John clenched his lips. 

Christ. 

He took a deep breath, clutching the paper tighter, as if he could hold onto his sanity by destroying something fragile. 

“I….hmmm….well.  
I really don’t know what to think about it.”

Sherlock snorted, but John raised his one finger to stop any protest. 

“It is hard to form an opinion when I do not have the facts.  
I am sure you can relate.  
I was not even aware there were _rules_ for this kind of thing, never mind the lack of them.  
It’s not like you vampires are an open book when it comes to your internal affairs.  
So I really don’t know, Sherlock.”

“Fair enough.”  
Sherlock took a deep breath.

“ For background information, the vampire society used to be rather small until 100 years or so, and there were circles of elders that used to decide this kind of thing for the whole country. We were not to be discovered, so a set of rules had to be followed.  
Discretion.  
But now John, humans _know_ about us. We have all the power, there are blood-banks to choose donors from, the human are our inferior.  
But when there is power there is always abuse of it, and some of the vampire community have not been very careful with their public appearance, taking whole harem’s of slaves, wasting human life as if it was easily replaceable, and that will not do, John, it would lead to another revolution, and Mycroft will not have that.  
So there will be rules.  
Regulations.  
2 donors, available through data-banks that will be carefully stocked and categorized, is available. If there is the need for more physical strength or of course leaders in the political area will have the chance to take up to 4 donors. And that is it.  
The bound-servants life-span will be monitored, and needs to exceed 15 years.  
And that is what is happening here.”

John just stared.  
Sherlock had spoken with such rapid speed, his eyes shining unnaturally bright as he had monotonously counted down the points. 

So much information at once, after he had for years tried to find out these kind of things. 

And Sherlock was staring at him, waiting for an answer.  
An opinion. 

“Ah….well.  
Great.  
That’s great.  
Good for Mycroft.”

Sherlock stared at John. Then he grimaced, fisting his hands at his side.  
“God damn it John.  
TALK TO ME!”

John nodded.  
Right then.  
They would talk. 

“I would tell it is great that Mycroft is trying to bind down the slavery of human beings, but I can’t.  
It does not matter whether vampire take 100 or 1000 servants, they are still robbing humans from their freedom, forcing them live with them, pleasure them, giving up everything they are and ever were for the whims of a vampire who thinks he is worth more than us.  
It is slavery, pure and simple. And this might go on for decades. Maybe even centuries but the slave trade of the western world has shown us before, it is not right to enslave someone else for their own profit and it will catch up with you in the end.”

Sherlock leaned foreward.  
“From your point of view, humans and vampires are equals. They are not.”

“Ah, but they are. Vampires were humans, transformed through a disease that gives them longer lives and a new feeding habit.  
They are older, power-hungry humans with the ability to kill and the need of sex and violence to feed.  
Humans that lost their humanity.  
And they lost the vision and intelligence to _know_ what they are doing is wrong.”

“Well, Doctor Watson, what would your solution then be? We have to feed. And donors are important to us. How would you solve this?”

John shifted in his seat, clawing the armrests. 

“There are humans out there that are willing to be fed from. I have seen them. The let’- pick-a-donor-and-force-them-to-live-with-us scenario is not working for me.  
People would volunteer. Probably even get a kick out of it.”

Sherlock snorted once more, waving a dismissive hand. 

“High-potential donors are very rare. The probability that they would volunteer is very low.”

John could not hold down his voice.

“OF course it is. Because you lay us in chains like animals, force us to wear collars, rape us, beat us, abuse us! The feeding is not even the problems, but we are not animals. Offer a fucking open relationship where your human meets you once a day to feed, and they don’t want to fuck you can go to a fucking prostitute.  
Anything.  
But this is WRONG!

His voice rang through the room.

He had been unaware that he had slowly stood, glaring up at Sherlock.  
The vampire had backed up, but his eyes had softened.  
There was a small smile playing in the corner of his mouth. 

“Traditions, John. There are traditions.”

“Yes. From a race that averages an age of about 1000 years change must be hard to come by. And there is your problem. Sticking to old traditions that are inhumane and out-dated just because vampire have _always_ done it that way.”

John was breathing hard.  
Sherlock said nothing, eyes stormy, glazed over as if he was deliberating. 

His eyes sinking down along his dressing gown. 

John swallowed dryly, still forcing his breathing to ease.  
Then he followed the vampire’s stare. 

His fist enclosed the thick silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown.  
Slowly, slowly he unclenched his finger.  
Then he stood.  
Waited.  
Raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

Silence. 

The vampire’s eyes never left him. 

“John.”

John’s back was prickling, cold, and uncomfortable. 

Sherlock’s voice, dark, husky.

“You might be right.”

And with that the vampire stepped back slowly, then turned liquidly, like a cat.  
He left the room silently, shrugging off his coat as he was walking, allowing the red silk to waver down to the floor before he reached his room.

Ivory.

“I am going out. I need you to do some laundry, there is money on the counter, Mr. Hudson can tell you the way to the closest Laundromat.”

It took Sherlock less than 5 minutes to dress and leave the flat.  
John never left the chair that he had sunk back down into. 

 

That god-damn vampire was fucking insane.


	30. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy time! Finally!   
> Oh yeah, oh yeah. *enter happy dance*
> 
> Also, guys, I am truly trying to get this story to the finish line, and I don’t think it is far off.
> 
> Thanks for everyone for hanging in with me here.   
> And for all your love in kudos and comments!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> x

Sherlock stayed away for 3 days.   
John did not worry.   
Of course not.   
Maybe, just maybe, he caught himself eyeing the watch more closely than usual on the evening of the 2nd day, watching telly, willing his body to relax. 

He was not worried.   
But it would be at least good to know when to expect the maniac back. 

John realized he really needed a hobby. 

 

Sherlock was back the following evening, and John this time heard the entry way door to the street, and he waited for the sound of Mrs Hudson unlocking her own flat.   
Instead, the door to the hallway banged open, and Sherlock stands in the door.   
There is hunger glowing in the darker than usual eyes of the vampire as he focuses on John, approaching silently and unnaturally fast, his gaze holding the smaller doctor in place. 

John stills.

It is an instinct, really.   
Sherlock is moving so fast, like he was hunting, predatory.   
John feels like a deer in the headlight. 

He stiffens, but forces shallow, even breaths through his nose, suppressing his fight or flight reflex that bubbles to the surface as the vampire crosses over to him, leaning in, grabbing him with too-strong hands.   
He fights it down, the panic, the fear, knowing that Sherlock will get even more agitated when he smells it, and this might hurt, but he knew it was coming, the next bite, and he would soldier thought it.   
The vampire towered over him, cold hands flying over John’s body, jerking him forward into Sherlock, whose other hand now forced John’s head to the side as he digged his nose into the warm pit of the man’s flesh. 

“Easy, Sherlock.”  
John gave his voice a soothing tone, as if he was talking to a scared animal.   
Calming. 

He could feel the tall man against him shiver as he drew in audible breath, his cold tongue curling and dancing over John’s heated and slightly sweaty skin.   
There is a deep growl and John realizes that Sherlock may be too far gone and he allows his body to soften in the grip, bowing his head wider, giving the vampire access. 

Sherlock bites hard and fast, but the numbing saliva does its job and instead of pain there was the familiar pull of his blood, his essence flowing over into another being, lighting a small, cold fire in the pit of his stomach, hyper-sensitizing his skin, pleasure running through his body.   
Sherlock growls at the additional adrenalin spicing up John’s blood and he pulls away, groaning as he lays his head back, pupils blown wide. 

John did not move but when he shifted he could feel cock, filling slowly with additional blood rubbing against the hard material of his jeans. 

Damn his body. 

He stayed still, watching Sherlock, the slowing rise and fall of the vampire’s chest, how he clenched and unclenched his fists in John’s sweater. 

After a minute or so passed, John started to shift slightly, catching a glimpse of Sherlock from the corner of his eye. The vampire still had his head tilted back, eyes closed now, and he seemed to be just breathing. 

Like it had been too much.   
He waited for another minute.

This was almost getting scary.

“Sherlock…?”  
No answer, but John could see one of tall man’s eyes fluttering.

“When did you last eat?”

A low, reverberating sound came from the bottom of Sherlock’s throat, and his hand flew up and dug into his curls, rubbing harshly at the skin of his scalp.   
His voice was dark and raspy, more animal than human.

“A couple of days. I was busy and there was no one suitable. I can manage without feeding every day.”

“You look like you are in pain.”   
Or having an orgasm. John was not going to say it. 

“Hmmm….side-effect of prolonged starvation of the vampiric body, we dry out, and there can be a slight headache.”  
Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them on his bound-servant once more.   
He studied him for a moment, both men just staring at each other, and then, within a blink of an eye Sherlock shrugged the coat of his shoulders, allowing it to fall onto the hardwood, throwing his scarf on top of it. 

Then he continued with the rest of his clothes. 

He quickly opened the small mother-of-pearl buttons of the grey, tailored shirt, starting at the top and wandering down, long and pale and way too fast, before he gave his shoulders another shrug, adding it to the pile on the floor.   
Finally Sherlock’s hands flew to his belt, opening with quick fingers, and with a push his woollen pants bundled around his feet, as he stepped out of them. 

His hand shot forward and he grabbed John once more, pulling him, rubbing his nose against the warm flesh of John below him.   
John had watched the scene in front of him holding his breath, clearing his mind.  
There would be no discussion about this today, he knew. Better to go with it. 

The vampire grabbed him closer, leaning in, rubbing his almost naked body against the man’s form, hands gliding along the harsh wool of his sweater, and then Sherlock slowly lowered himself to his knees, not letting go of his grip, forcing John to bend his knees as well and go down to the floor with him.   
A quick glance confirmed that the hunger he had seen earlier was still shining brightly in the light grey eyes. The vampire’s breath had quickened again, and John knew that Sherlock needed to feed more than he already had.

John had never been the most graceful and so he was tumbling when he hit the floor, another harsh tug of Sherlock pulling him forward, making him loose his balance, toppling onto Sherlock beneath him, instinctively trying to pull his hands under him.   
The vampire immediately uncovered his teeth as he let out an angry hiss, and John slowly went limp on top of his Master, showing the agitated being that he was not going to fight or flee. 

There was a content growl at John’s behaviour, and then Sherlock leaned upward, catching the man’s face with his hands, pulling him forward and on top of himself as his legs opened up, trapping John Watson between his muscular thighs, jeans rubbing hard against the vampire’s unprotected crotch. 

John could feel how hard Sherlock as. 

Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck once more, tongue swirling, licking at dried blood, taking in the spicy scent of _John_ , sucking hard at the crook until Sherlock could feel the blood rising to the surface under his vicious pulls that had John hissing, lapping when it bruised the golden skin beneath him. 

John realized that Sherlock had little control over his hunger, and he lowered one of his arms onto Sherlock side and started to rub the cold skin in slow, calming circles.   
The vampire jerked at the touch, then his tongue licked a long, languid stripe of blood and saliva all the way up to John’s mouth, nibbling at the open, pliant lips, and then he dove in, tasting of hot, salty blood and suppressed passion, and John allowed him in.

Blood.   
Passion.   
Hunger. 

There was little else in the kiss, and John could almost feed of the furious need of the vampire under him, so raw and hungry.   
Hot mouth gliding against cold.   
John relished the taste, not dead, but instead very alive, earthy and raw, cool rain and thunder.   
Blood and Sex.   
And underneath all of that, something else, something familiar.   
Himself. 

John groaned and with speed the vampire grabbed the lower part of the heavy sweater that clung to the man’s frame and pulled it up, along with the T-shirt, both helping to shrug them off, throwing them across the room. 

John felt the cold air hit his skin, and he felt dizzy.

“Sherlock, I don’t want to….”

A growl, dark, angry, hateful.  
“I know.”

Nothing else. 

But John remembered the deal they had, he did, and his hand lowered down where their bodies pressed together, shifting to the slide them inside Sherlock’s pants, already sticky where the pre-come has leaked through them.  
His hot hand ran over cold, smooth skin, slightly dry, but he just strokes it, relishing the velvety rub of it against the pad of his fingers.   
Soft and cold and strong.   
_So Sherlock_  
He waved away the unwanted though.  
His other hand wandered to his jeans pocket, and he pulled out a small bottle of lube, flicking the lid open. He had started carrying it around about a week ago.  
Sherlock seemed to hate it when he had to go fetch it. 

The vampire growled at the familiar sound, hand possessively tightening on John’s neck and then John squirted the slightly warmer lube onto his hands, his other pulling down the vampire’s pants.  
Without hesitation his fingers tighten around the long, elegant prick that had sprung free. 

Sherlock’s back arched as John pulled his fist down hard and fast, drawing a deep groan from the shuddering vampire beneath him. He smiled at the sound, knowing that he could reduce such a strong, fierce being into a slithering mess, and his second stroke was slow and teasing, circling the top with the tips of his fingers before they wrapped themselves around Sherlock’s cock once more, drawing down slowly, languidly, the foreskin revealing the whole head that was slightly darker than the rest.  
He kept pulling until he hit the nest of black, wiry curls, dark against the light skin. 

Sherlock shuddered again and hissed, his breath coming fast, and then he was _growling_.

John ignored him and his hand slid up once more and then he fisted the cock hard, pulling down with a harsh stroke, punishing, almost angry and a grin flashed before Sherlock’s face before he threw his head back.   
“Harder, John.”

And John obeyed.  
Anger he suppressed for a while bubbled to the surface, and he felt like punishing the being beneath him.   
By hurting the way he had been hurt.   
He established a hard, ruthless rhythm, fist sliding easy to almost too much lube, but he made up with the right amount of pressure, hard and tight, though Sherlock seemed to like it.   
Up and down, up and down, the slippery sound of the cock rubbing against his hands loud in the room.   
His other arm was falling asleep and John had to lean back to have more access, more leverage, and then he was pushed to the side and onto his back, Sherlock straddling him.

The vampire’s hands fell down onto John’s chest, and then Sherlock’s hips started to move rhythmically as he fucked himself into John’s hand, naked ass dragging back and forth on John’s jeans, a dark, deep whine rolling from the bottom of his throat. 

Sherlock leaned forward, cold fingers curled around john’s idle hand and he pulled it down between his legs while John sped up his pumping. 

“Massage my scrotum, John.”

John did not even think at this point, he knew Sherlock was riding close, and so he obliged, his lubed fingers touching velvety sack, taking it, feeling the weight of Sherlock’s balls against his palm as they swung back and forth in the rhythm of Sherlock’s continuous pumping. 

“Pinch them….”  
Sherlock’s voice was low, dark, and pure need. 

John hesitated for only a moment, and then he felt the vampire’s fingers on top of his, rubbing them against him, pinching, clawing, harder and harder as Sherlock sped up his fucking. 

With a groan Sherlock leaned in all the way, nuzzling possessively at John’s chest, covered with a fine layer of sweat and dirt from the floor. Sherlock bit slightly, then worked his way up to the clavicle, nuzzling where he had bitten earlier. 

John automatically pushed his head to one side, offering himself in a submissive fashion, and Sherlock gripped John’s neck harder, speeding up his gliding within John’s first. 

The man knew he was close as Sherlock’s shoulders started to hunch and then and John felt Sherlock’s hand pushing his fingers from the vampire’s balls further back, and then the slippery fingers of the vampire glid over the vampire’s hole, forcing John’s hand along with them. 

“Jesus, Sherlock….” John gasped and tried to pull away but Sherlock’s hold turned to steel and with a low shout Sherlock pressed hard on top of John’s fingers, gliding both of them into Sherlock’s relaxed arse, penetrating deep.

Then the vampire dug his teeth back into his slave’s neck, fucking himself onto John’s finger on one side and into John’s fist on the other, biting hard and deep, John sprouting into his mouth in warm, salty gushes.

He sucked greedily, more and more, Sherlock’s whole body shivering through the orgasm as he came in large, cold spurts between their bodies.


	31. Boredom

That night, when John Watson went to bed, he could not fall asleep for a long while.   
Sherlock had gone straight to sleep, exhausted from wherever he had been, and John had gathered their clothes, waiting for the vampire to come out of the bathroom to take a long, languid shower. 

That bite had been…different.  
And his mind would not let it go. 

He had felt something. 

The hunger he had seen in Sherlock’s eyes, it had consumed his own body.   
John had not shied away from the vampire’s touch, once he had been sure that he would not be hurt, instead he had felt himself lean into it, hungry for feeling anything else than the loneliness and boredom that was consuming him.   
And somehow the transfer of power between them, the energy that Sherlock got from him had been so very strong.   
John had _felt_ himself be part of Sherlock now.   
He had tasted it in the coldness of the marbled flesh. 

It scared him. 

And that night John made himself a vow, before falling asleep to think about the ones that had died and suffered in a fight they had lost, and this would not be a battle he would lose.  
Not ever. 

 

And he would wake up screaming once more, haunted now by visions of the fallen and the betrayal of his body searching for love. 

 

John slept well into the next morning and when he woke he felt well rested and ready to face the day. Sherlock was already sitting in the armchair facing the kitchen when he came down, fingers tapping a rhythm. 

“Morning.”   
“Hmmmmm.”

“So…where were you then for 3 days?

Sherlock turned, eyes glittering dangerously. 

“Hmmmmm….why would you need to know that, Watson?”

Oh.  
Tread easy today, John. 

“Sorry. It is just, I have been sitting around all by myself, and you come home, starved enough that I am scared that you will eat me alive.   
I was just wondering.”

“You are not my wife.”

“No. I am your god-damned slave. Sorry for asking.”

Sherlock hissed, then rubbed his hands in front of his face.   
His eyes closed, just for a moment, and then they fixed on John. 

“Fair enough. I had to go to the High Committee about your Bound-Servant Status with me as Master.”

John felt his mouth go dry, he slowly put down his toast. 

“How….how did it go?”

He took a sip of tea.   
Too hot.

“It was horrible and daft, they wanted to take you away after your allergic reaction. It took them forever to understand my findings, to understand that my research has shown this to be an evolutionary process, but as I only had data on us, they were reluctant to accept.”

 

“You presented your findings?”  
There was a flash of resentment going through John’s researcher side, and wanting to know what Sherlock had found _exactly_ after having him run all the background tests for him. 

“Yes. Of course I did. They wanted to take you away.”

John swallowed.   
Once.   
Twice.   
He had another sip of tea.   
Still too hot. 

“And…?”

“Nothing and. In the end Mycroft stood in for me and they accepted. Now they are forcing me to write a report on all of this, maybe even bring more _proof_ , what a waste of my time.   
However, you are to be in my custody for 5 more years, then I can decide to prolong the contract for another 10. “

John took a deep breath.

“So…I am stuck with you for the next 15 years?”

His eyes bored into the too light ones of the vampire. 

Sherlock grinned.   
“Yeah. I guess you are.”

John nodded, and went back to his toast. 

He should have not asked. 

 

Within the next hour Sherlock continued to receive an array of messages, and his infuriated hisses and snarls indicated to John that whoever was texting, his vampire did not like it.

At all. 

John was pretty sure it was Mycroft. 

When the next ping of the SMS came in, John could not hold back a smirk, hoping for another audible anger attack.   
It was kind of fun to listen to. 

“JOHN! Come here!”

Sherlock’s voice was more of a hiss, and John felt the old fear flush through him, then he hurried to the living room.   
Nothing had happened recently.  
It would not now. 

“You are a doctor, John. You can write reports.”

John shrugged his shoulders. “I had to write several texts and I was published as a co-author in a couple of journals, so I kind of have an idea how to write something, yes.”

“Perfect.”  
Definite gleam in Sherlock’s eyes. 

“You will help me write this thing they want. I will get you your own laptop. And a scanner. Whatever you need.”

 

And with that Dr. John Watson had something resembling a task, starting with sifting through three boxes of medical texts, pictures and print-out of gels and Western Blots and PCR results without any description whatsoever.

He started to organize, ask Sherlock for information on un-readable pieces of paper, astounded by the wealth of information the vampire had stored inside his brain, putting together pieces of information on himself and Sherlock as well as a very few other donors. 

It took John several days to make the full connections Sherlock had made, between his B cells and the protein-surfaces of some of the vampire’s venom, as well as HLA profiles that matched them up as well and finally the way their cells reacted together that low-donor cells did not…

A lot of information.   
He was deeply in awe of the speed and brilliance that it must have taken Sherlock to make the connections.  
In a way, it was deeply humbling. 

When everything was more or less done, John rubbed his head.

“Just give me a summary of the findings, Sherlock, before I start typing it out.”

Sherlock crinkled his forehead. 

“High-profile donor has seemingly allergic reaction to Masters venom, proofing the evolution of a symbiotic relationship between man and vampire.”

John wrote it down.   
“Explain it to me.”

“Don’t you get it, John? You read all the results.”

“Explain it to me like I am stupid.”

Sherlock snorted. 

“Fine. We had some reports on allergic reactions in high-end donor-matches, but nothing to pinpoint, just rumours more than facts. But the tests, they made everything clear.”

“Clear?” 

“Of course. Our blood compatibility pattern is very high, but still you expressed a quick and very strong resistance against the vampiric protein that was baffling to me.   
Our blood shows a better match to me than you do to Mycroft or Irene, yet you react stronger to my proteins. When we look at all the indications, you and I are clear proof of the evolution between donor and vampire relationships.”

“How?”

“Co-dependency.”

John blinked. 

“Don’t you get it, John? Your body rejects an excessive use of proteins to maintain a healthy and long-term sustainable level of your immune system.   
Healthy. Long-term.   
It does that by forcing me to NOT inject you with protein. In return, the amount of energy your blood provides to _me_ is different than it would be someone that you were less compatible with.”

“Right. And…?”

Sherlock hopped off the sofa, and walked up to John, proud and tall, eyes sparkling.

“We are such a rare match John, that your blood will be able to sustain a connection between us. I can feel _you_ when I drink, it is not just nourishment, it is _power_.  
Of course, the need for such power is a danger to any donor, and believe that some donors have evolved to force us into more of an symbiotic instead of parasitic relationship. 

Sherlock stepped up and cupped John’s face in his hands.   
His voice was deep but crystal clear. 

“But there is so much power in you. And I dare not to hurt or loose the source of this power in any way. You have evolved in a way that protects you from me, rejecting my drug-like protein so that I can profit from feeding from your healthy body for a very long time.”

Sherlock let John go and grinned, hands clapping in front of him, like a five-year old. 

“There are very rare cases of such good matches as we seem to be, but if my research is correct, you and I are going to form a mental bond at one time, binding us even closer together.”

He came very close, eyes searching John’s face.

“Have you been feeling it already, John? The infatuation?”

John felt himself flush hotly, shaking his head.   
No. 

Sherlock smirked, then shrugged his shoulders.  
“Well, I have, John, I can feel you through the walls, note the rhythmical pumping of your heart, how if speeds up when you hear a sound. I could smell you all the way down the street yesterday, and it had been everything I needed.   
I could even smell what you were _thinking_.”

By now Sherlock definitely looked like a mad man, dishevelled hair and naked feet, ranting.   
His turned, eying John, voice dropping low. 

“We could probably intensify the feeling, if I would feed you with my own blood….”

“NO!” John had stepped back, violently shaking his head.   
“You are not going to feed me your BLOOD! I am not going to get TUNRED!”

Sherlock growled.   
“Why would I want to turn you if I need you as a donor? No, I would enhance what we have. Our mental bond.”

“Get the bloody hell away from me, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock had growled but retreated.   
The vampire could taste the anger that night when he fed from John. 

 

It took John 2.5 months to get everything written up in a reasonable fashion that made sense somehow and so that the ‘idiots of the councils could read it’ as Sherlock phrased it.  
It was approved by Mycroft.   
55 pages, including all the diagrams.

 

After that Sherlock started taking him along to his cases, allowing John to take notes.   
A hobby.  
Nothing else. 

And John took his time typing his reports, realizing that no-one but Sherlock and maybe Mycroft and some high officials were ever going to read them.   
Something to do, nothing else.

 

John Watson did not dare to keep a personal diary, 

The fear the vampire ever finding it, his deepest thoughts and worries, of never being able to get away from this nightmare that was now his life was too grand. 

Of course it seemed like Sherlock had changed, in his attitude and how he treated him. 

But sometimes, more rarely now, he could still see the anger flash in the vampire’s eyes, hot and unyielding, and if it ever struck out against John again, he was sure that everything would escalate.   
It was not worth the risk. 

He also never wanted to Sherlock to find out about some of his own fears having become reality. 

His own need.  
Hunger.   
To be touched, to have power while being submissive, the rough hands so cold against his skin, so familiar now. They had etched tattoos under his skin that he believed he would never loose. 

No.

John Watson did not write a personal diary.

 

Instead, night after night, he continued to recall the faces of the fallen, dead, of his friend and fellow revolutionaries, his mother and father.   
Just to keep him sane.   
And to remind him, that he was not going to fall in love with a bloody vampire.


	32. Taste

Sherlock, for the first time in a long while, felt himself change, if even ever so slightly.   
He could feel a deep bonding taking place, his body somehow on a different wavelength, calmer than he knew himself to be. 

Sherlock was used to a live of anger, of pain, of being ridiculed for being different.  
He had learned to build up that exoskeleton of pride and knowledge, he was used to for it to impress and bring conveniences when they were needed.   
But now, as he solely feed on John, the calm, the pride, the human side of John Watson seemed to flow over, just sometimes, tiny little morsels, and he could feel himself calm.   
And Sherlock loved being calm.

He was pleased that John tried very hard to suppress his anger and sadness in his blood, so he was normally warm and welcoming when Sherlock fed of him, more and more pliant in his hands as he would lean back for his master. 

And it was so hard for Sherlock not to just take, to feed whenever he wanted, to fuck and to devour as his whole body ordered him to.   
He had to learn again how to be patient.   
And it was a hard thing to do. 

He could smell mood swings in John's blood, his suppressed anger and heightened awareness, his boredom, but also his appreciation and more and more over the weeks and months, his longing.   
John’s need for sex. 

It was getting stronger and stronger, like a fine wine that had been stored for exactly that reason, and Sherlock knew that he could not push too early, not when the man was showing such clear signs of Stockholm or Infatuation syndrome.

No.   
He had to be patient. 

He asked for so much less than he wanted, than he needed, but his drive for more was overpowering. 

So he went to meet with Irene and her harem to take out the sexually needs that were hidden away from John Watson to see, his anger and need to hurt to other s, feeling much calmer when he was back in his own four walls. 

 

When he deemed John ready, it was time for another experiment. . 

 

Sherlock had started bringing in treats for his donor to eat, starting with chocolates and crisps, trying to woo the man with small little gifts, and at the same time comparing the change in taste with different foods.   
Sherlock declared that any kind of fast food was disgusting and thickening when he bit him after.  
He told John it cheapened it’s taste. 

John had just grinned and fetched himself another bag of crisps.  
Playfulness had started to emerge in his donor.   
That was good. 

 

About a week later Sherlock brought a bottle of wine together with some expensive steak for John to prepare. 

It was deep, dark Merlot that Sherlock had opened to breathe, pouring the dark-red liquid into one of the good crystal glasses. John had been slightly surprised when the vampire had opened the bottle, as they had stuck to the “no alcohol” policy until now.  
Not that John was complaining. 

He said nothing, and instead started to prepare the steak, a wonderful thick piece of meat that looked like it was as expensive as they come. He turned the heat on the stove high before he placed the meat into the pan, stepping back at the angry sizzle, relishing the smell when it rose up instantly.   
Then Sherlock stepped up to him from behind, too close, once again forgetting limits like personal space.   
John turned, his brow furrowed as the glass of wine was right in front of him, almost full to the brim.   
He grinned, then took the glass while simultaneously taking a step to the side.  
Then he took a sniff from the wine that Sherlock had passed him, long and deep.

It smelled fabulous.   
With the sizzling meat underlying in his nostrils, this wine was heavy and rich, with traces of oak and cherries.

He took a sip.

Almost a bit too dry for his case, but the taste and its complexity was tremendous. 

John Watson was sure that this was the best wine he had ever tasted. 

He took another sip when he felt Sherlock lean in from behind him, whispering into his ear:  
“Mycroft had one of his sommeliers pick it out especially for you. It should match the taste of your blood.”

John lowered the glass and turned to face Sherlock, eyes lowering.   
“You are creepy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned, flopping back against the kitchen counter. 

“Ah yes, but you kind of like that sometimes, admit it.”

John just shrugged his shoulders as he went back to the steak, turning it, before he deemed it done. He liked his meat rare anyway.   
Bloody.

He placed the meat alongside with potatoes on a plate, and took them with the wine to the kitchen counter, and sat down.

Sherlock watched him as he ate, in silence, light eyes flicking around, his body however perfectly still.   
Watching.   
Staring.   
He had been doing this a lot these past couple of weeks.   
John was getting used to it. 

About half-way into his meal Sherlock fetched the wine bottle once more, and refilled the glass almost all the way up to the brim. 

Everything that had ever been taught to John bristled at this obvious breach of manners.   
“No….stop, Sherlock, this is way too much. You only fill it halfway.”

Sherlock looked up, seriously puzzled.  
“Why?”

“Ahmmm….I don’t know. It’s just how it is done.”

Sherlock snorted.   
“Whatever, drink faster, John. I calculated we need at least half a bottle for this to work.”

John eyed him, calmly took another bite from his steak, then pushed away his plate. 

“For what to work, Sherlock?”

The vampire blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “It’s an experiment.”

“An experiment.” John nodded.   
Of course it was.  
“And what, if I may ask, would this experience entail?”

“I wanted to trial the influence of alcohol on your taste, as well as the gradient it will have on your behavior. I think we should start with half a bottle of wine today, and then we can vary the amounts and types of alcohol. “

John thought about fighting the idea, but then again, why not?  
If he could get a couple of drinks out of this, that was totally fine.   
He had not had alcohol in ages.

“Sure. But I am not going to chug down that wine as fast as you want. It seems a little expensive for that. Give me an hour.”

The vampire screwed his face as if in distaste, but did not argue. 

When he bit John later that night, John was more relaxed, pliant, a small grin on his face.   
Sherlock liked the taste of red wine in John.   
Yes.   
Very much so.

 

Of course alcohol was prohibited, but it was not hard for Sherlock Holmes to get his hands on it.   
He kept John half-drunk for the better of 10 days he realized it tainted the blood with pro-longed use and had a better effect when used in portioned times and amounts.   
Also, it gave him slight headaches the next day, the longer John had alcohol in his blood. 

And John's normally clean sweat took a clear unsatisfying odor that Sherlock was not keen on.  
He noted it down in his mental file of John Watson and declared the experiment to be over. 

 

The cases that Sherlock was called to were erratic, and sometimes he received no call for a week or more.  
John noted early on that at those times the vampire got more and more frustrated, growling under his breath, tainting the air with something that tasted of ash.  
John could start to _feel_ Sherlock's emotions more and more, but it went against everything he had ever believed in and tried hard to suppress the feelings.   
He learned, however, that it was best to stay of out of the vampire's way when he was frustrated. 

 

It was another quiet week and Sherlock was pacing the kitchen, ruffling his hair in frustration, his newest experiment containing about 30 petri-dishes filled with milk and different amounts of John's blood mixed with the vampire's saliva, stored at different temperatures. 

John had woken early with a slight headache and when he prepared himself a cup of tea, he not only found that the milk he had bought only two days ago was empty, but that the bloody dishes were uncovered and spread around the fridge not only in the designated experiment area, but in his area as well. 

He took a deep breath, massaging his aching temples, staring at his tea.

Sherlock passed him his debit card without a question when John told him that he had to make another trip to Tescos, ignoring John's angry tone of voice. 

 

He was gone for about an hour, and when John Watson came back, Sherlock could hear the slam in the door downstairs, concentrating on his donor as he stomped up the stairs.   
Heart rate was elevated and when John opened the door Sherlock could immediately smell anxiety and anger in his donor's scent.

“Everything all right, John?”

He kept his voice disinterested, but both of them knew that Sherlock could tell something was off.  
The answer therefore was even more interesting. 

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Mmmmmmmm. Well, you don’t _smell_ fine.”

John made an angry noise, once more clutching his forehead. 

“Headache.”

Sherlock put down the petri-dish he had been staring at under the microscope and within the blink of an eye he stood in front of John. 

“Don't lie to me, John. Your headache is not that bad. Something happened.”

John let out an angry growl and stared at Sherlock. 

“Nothing happened that is worth telling you about. Now leave me be!”

Sherlock grinned.   
John had not been stubborn in a long while, and he could feel the defiance and anger waver off him like heat.   
No, this was too good to let go. 

His arm shot forward, grabbing John's jumper, pulling the man closer.

John's eyes darkened, and he took a defensive stood. 

“Let go of me Sherlock, or so help me God....”

“What happened, John. Tell me!”

John clutched his head once more. Adding to the pounding headache he had been nursing since this morning, the closeness to Sherlock upset him more than he could explain.   
While the vampire had told him that he could feel John through walls, he had not experienced anything similar, but lately...lately....  
Well, while he could not feel what Sherlock was thinking or where he was, when he was close like this, he could somehow make out a... a field of something he found hard to explain.   
When Sherlock was anxious, he could feel and taste it on his tongue, under his skin, something like a warning in the air, and at the moment, the feeling was …. _blue_ it was fucking BLUE, calm with a hint of humor and interest, and it made John _crazy_ that he could not ignore these signs of obvious bonding anymore. 

“Get the fuck away from me, Sherlock.”  
His voice was low, an angry hiss.  
“I have to take an aspirin.”

Sherlock stepped back, silent.  
He did not deny his donor taking drugs, not when he could feel the pangs of pain through the air. 

However, he would not back up. 

He watched as John took the box of medication out of the shopping back, ripping open the wrapping and throwing a large, white tablet into a glass of water where it dissolved.   
Sherlock stood silently as John drank the liquid in slow gulps. 

He knew it would take a while for the pain to be gone, but he was not going to back up now that something interesting was finally happening once more.   
He had been without a case for too long. 

Sherlock stepped closer, crowding John against the kitchen counter, pressing his long, slender body against the heat of the man, feeling him tense, but able to smell the flash of need in his donor. 

Then John pushed him away, angry. 

His voice was low, dangerously so.   
“Leave me alone, Sherlock.”

“You know I can't do that.”

John looked up at him, dark blue eyes stormy under heavy blond lashes.   
His mouth curled into a frown of distaste. 

“Can't or won't?”

Sherlock grinned.   
“What do you think, John?”

John closed his eyes.

Today had been a bad day.

It might have to do with his headache, but the moment he had stepped outside he could feel people's eyes boring into him as he had walked down the street, hot stares focusing on his bronze collar he could hardly cover up with his scarf.  
He saw a mother pulling her child across the street to the other walkway to get as far away from him as possible.   
And then one of those large guys with bald heads had walked into him, shoving John hard.  
He had stopped and turned at the man that had continued walking.  
“Excuse you!” His voice had been loud, and the man had stopped, turned slowly.  
He had looked up and down John's smaller frame, then his face had crumbled in distaste and he had spit on the floor. 

“Blood-whore.”

With that he had continued walking. 

John had trembled in anger as he did his shopping, hyper aware of the stares of distaste and pity.

Sherlock's voice was right behind him, a low, sultry purr in his ear, pulling him back into reality.  
“Tell me, John. Tell me what happened.”

The vampire's hands were now kneading his shoulders, heavy and cold but the massage good for his tense muscles. 

“No....” He knew that his denial was getting weaker. 

“Tell me.”  
An order. 

John shook his head. His shoulders slumped. 

And then Sherlock suddenly smelled something, that he had not smelled in a while on his donor, and it scared him.   
Desperation.   
Like something was dying inside.   
His John.   
Giving up. 

Sherlock grabbed John, this time more earnest, as if he was trying to shake the man out of it.   
“What would you have me to do, John?”

John did not look at him as he struggled to free himself from the iron grip.

“Take it off, Sherlock.” his voice was low.   
His hand flew up to the large collar around his neck, the bronze metal almost part of his body now, but every time he moved, rubbing old leather against his neck, realizing that he was no more his own man. 

Sherlock grunted, shaking his head. 

“You know I can't do that, John. It shows others that you are mine.”

John's eyes blazed fury. 

“Do you actually think anyone is going to claim me? I hardly ever leave the house as it is, do you think some vampire is going to jump me at Tesco's?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly.   
He was grinning now, fangs shining in the morning light. 

“It also shows you that you are mine.”

John shook his head, sadly, tired.   
“Believe me, Sherlock, you remind me every day that I am yours. I don't need this...”, he spat the word out: “ _Collar_ to remind me of it.”

Sherlock leaned back, seemingly considering. 

“What would you do for me if I was to remove it, John?”

He could feel the hot fury raging through Watson like fire.   
John ripped himself out of Sherlock's grasp, his hand slapping at the fingers that had been holding his sweater too tight. 

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes! Fuck you! You want another trade? Is that it?  
What do you want this time? I am already jerking you off, so are we back to you fucking me?  
Every time you do something for me, I have to give up just a little bit more of being human?  
And the cost for not looking like a god-damn slave is taking it up the ass once more?   
Is there an amount of times I have to let you rape me before we see this paid off?”

A wide swept motion shattered one of John's favorite cups on the floor, as the donor now clawed as his own sweater as he started pulling it over his head. 

“Go on then, Sherlock Holmes, take what you have been denying yourself, you arrogant prick.”

Sherlock stepped back from the raging, snarling ball of fury that was John Watson.  
He watched as John continued to scream abuse at him, pulling at his clothes, his headache forgotten. 

“Stop it, Watson, you are hysterical.”

“FUCK YOU!”

Sherlock slapped him. 

John fell back against the counter, breathing heavily, his half-removed sweater hanging from his limbs. 

Sherlock waited for John to continue with his attack, but the man was now silent, breathing heavily, standing, cradling his cheek in his hand. 

The desperation was back.   
And something more.   
Loss of hope. 

That would not do.

Sherlock turned and left the room, returning within a minute holding a small, bronze key. 

There was just a faint click as he opened the small lock on the back of John’s neck. 

John flinched as cold fingers circled his now naked neck, freezing cold on the soft skin that had been sheltered for so long.   
He shivered as Sherlock caressed his skin, not shying away from the touch but also not leaning into it. 

Sherlock took the collar carefully and brought it back into his room to store it away once more. 

John rubbed his neck for a while, trying to enjoy the freedom, but wondering what he would pay for it heavy on his mind. 

 

The next day Sherlock presented him with a pair of dog tags on a silver beaded chain.   
The plates read his name on the front and on the back they labeled him as Property of Sherlock Holmes. It included an address and a telephone number. 

He did not thank Sherlock.   
The vampire did not need him to. 

He could taste the gratitude in his donors blood.


	33. An elephant in the room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, here it is.  
> I can't even tell you how hard it was to write this one.  
> Two more to go, and the last one is all finished!
> 
> Now, I had to switch from Windows Words to OpenOffice and I am still figuring out how this thing works with grammar check etc.  
> So if you find mistakes, they are all mine, and I am sorry.
> 
> But before you complain, think about it once, think about it again, and then please don't.  
> Cause I don't get paid for this and I am currently not in the mood to work with a beta....
> 
> Yeah, anyway, here is some smut that made me happy!  
> I hope you like it!
> 
>  
> 
> x

8 months had passed since the day that Sherlock first smelled Dr. John Watson at Buckingham Palace.

8 months. 

No time at all.

At the same time: An eternity.

 

Spring was in the air outside, birds singing early in the mornings, and the first trees were pushing bright green leaves from their buds, showing that another winter was going to end. 

It had been a long, dark and very wet winter. 

John had not taken kindly to being locked up in the dark with Sherlock and had taken more and longer walks, not even asking anymore whether he was allowed to.  
Sometimes the vampire hardly even noticed.

When Sherlock would head out for cases, John would just wait for a nod from his master to throw on his new Burberry jacket, looking forward to the excitement just as much as the taller man did. 

 

Life was slowly becoming routine at 221 B Baker Street. 

 

x

 

It was just another day. 

Sherlock was sitting in his favorite arm chair facing the kitchen, his hands drumming a unsteady beat on the leather beneath him, chewing his lip in frustration as he saw Watson walk in from his shower. 

He could _smell_ John, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the ripe, calm maleness of John Watson invade his nostrils, clean but the blood pumping in his veins hot and salty, he could feel it on his tongue....

Sherlock felt his mouth starting to water and his cock slowly filling, just as the smell of the man alone.  
He snorted, slightly unnerved by his own need, not welcome when he was not searching it out.

He hated being such a slave to his own body.

He stayed still and watched John as he tapped over to the kitchen where he set up the water for his tea, setting up a pan of bacon and eggs, pushing bread in the toaster.  
The smell of the food soon took over the kitchen, and Sherlock was bored once more, his left foot starting to drum a nervous beat into the carpet. 

The ring of his cell phone pulled him from his thoughts, and from the corner of his eye he could see John freeze with the pan in his hands, staring at the phone just before Sherlock picked it up. 

It was Lestrade.

Another case. 

Sherlock grinned at his donor and rushed into his room to get ready, knowing that John was doing the same, running down the stairs 5 minutes later, the man gripping a quickly made bacon-sandwich in his fingers that he hungrily munched on once they got into the cab. 

The ride in the cab was otherwise silent. 

 

By the time they arrived at the crime scene, the police officers, men and vampire's alike just gave them quick looks before the nodded them through, no one giving the man a second glance as he trailed behind Sherlock into the large mansion in the outskirts of London.

The large house was brightly lit from inside and out, but nothing prepared either for them for what they found inside. 

An elephant. 

The large animal was laid out in the parlor room of the large mansion, the animal half-dead and skittish, and they watched in stunned silence while it took a whole of 4 vampire's to get the beast to stand from it's resting position on the floor, bleeding sluggishly from many wounds.  
Once the animal stood it revealed a body that had been crushed underneath it, the head and heart of what seemed to be a vampire squashed to a pulp, and Sherlock sneered at the human's in the room that had gone to throw up in the garden just past the large glass doors. 

Sherlock gave the corpse a two-second glance and a long sniff before he lowered himself onto his knees next to the body.  
His long, pale fingers fluttered over the dead skin, hands sneaking into pockets of the black coat the corpse was wearing, leaning in close to take in more of the aroma of spilled blood that was already sickeningly strong in the room. 

Then he stood, heading towards the elephant who trumpeted in fear at the many vampires around him, his hand surprisingly gentle on the gray hide as he looked the animal over. 

Lestrade was standing in the corner, chewing on his lip as he directed his officers, watching Sherlock closely, approaching when he received the nod from the consulting detective that he was done.

“A vampire. She was murdered. It was her mistress.”

Sherlock turned towards John, giving him an impatient nod, then he crossed towards the exit, clearly ready to leave. 

Lestrade stood with his mouth slightly open, eyes trailing to John who gave him a short, apologetic shrug, and then both of them followed the tall vampire out of the room. 

“Wait. So, what happened....?”

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's shout, John grinning under his breath as they made their way around the many police cars parked outside, and the donor slowed down just a little to force his vampire to turn and wait for him.  
It allowed Lestrade to catch up, and once he did, he stopped Sherlock with a heavy hand on his forearm.

“Sherlock, stop. Tell me what happened.”

The Detective Inspector's voice was still low, but John could hear the slight waver of annoyance in there. 

“Why don't you just look, Lestrade? It's all there!” Sherlock snapped at him, his eyes trailing towards John once more, eyes lighting up at John's grin.

He took another look around and then hissed in annoyance when he realized that their cab had not waited for them, knowing that so far out of town he would have to call and wait for a new one to get here. 

“God damn it, Sherlock, I swear to God, I will never call you again if you don't fucking tell me what is going on!”  
Lestrade was angry, and John relished the power that was jumping between the two tall men, happy to stand by the side and watch. 

“She fed of the elephant and he crushed her. Simple.”

John let out a chuckle, that he quickly suppressed when Greg's flaming eyes fell on him.  
The detective turned back to Sherlock with a snarl. “Who is she?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if in pain.  
“Blood-Daughter of the South African president, both have a fable for exotic animals, I believe you will find a couple more in the basement, there was a key in her left pocket, no ordinary key, heavy and pure metal, so presumably old. As the house is fitted with new security locks, it can't be one of them, so inside is more likely.  
Her blood stank of animal, and the elephant is covered in several – new and old – bite marks. They are placed at different heights consistently, so more than one vampire feeding. Three, in fact. Simple.”

“Brilliant.” John muttered under his breath. 

Both vampires stared at the man, something like admiration flaming up in Sherlock's eyes.  
Then it was gone. 

“How do you know there are other animals?” Lestrade interrupted them. 

“As I said, she stinks of them. I would say Lion as well as maybe Cheetah, but I can't be sure about that one.”  
Sherlock's eyes never left John who had now lowered his gaze under the intense scrutiny of those stormy eyes.  
He shifted, uneasy. 

Lestrade shook his head as he talked into his hand-held communication device. Then he turned to Sherlock once more. 

“You said her mistress murdered her. How.....?”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Really, Lestrade, it you would just _look_ and use your _head_ instead of just using it to carry around your brain...”

John suppressed his laugh this time.  
He really did. 

There was a pause, and then Sherlock let out a huff. 

“The elephant had been fed on just before the victim did, I believe it was induced with anger during the first bite. However both the animal and the vampire must have been somewhat comfortable with the murderer being there, or there would have been clues to indicate otherwise. As the victim is not from around here, presumably just visiting for a short while, she probably has little other relations around here. She herself was only turned in the last 50 years or so, which is why I would suggest her mistress did it. ”

Lestrade blinked. “Why would she ...”

Sherlock threw up his arms. “I don't know! Maybe she was an annoying brat! How about you actually do something for your money and figure it our yourself?”

 

John could not keep the grin from his face most of the way home. 

 

x

 

Hunger. 

It was singing in Sherlock's blood when they arrived in Baker Street, and John smiled as he followed his vampire up the stairs, closing the door behind himself. 

Sherlock had disappeared into his room and returned a minute later with a crystal bottle filled with rich, honey-colored liquid, rummaging through the cupboard in the kitchen where he found a heavy glass tumbler.  
The vampire opened the bottle as John watched from the living room, Sherlock taking a long sniff from it before pouring the golden liquid into the glass carefully, and then turning, eying John one more time with his quick-silver eyes. 

“This is a present from Irene, 40-year old Scotch, ripened in a wooden barrel. I was told it was expensive.”

John laughed, stepping towards the vampire.  
“It's not even 5 pm, Sherlock, a little early to have a drink, don't you think?”

Sherlock frowned for a moment, then grinned himself.  
“Ah, but have you not always been a rebel, John Watson?”

John smirked and took the glass, sniffing at the golden Whiskey, savoring the malty, rich smell.  
“I should really eat something as well then...”

He took a sip, and the Scotch was soft as velvet, the taste living up to the promise it made with the smell, wonderfully full and complex, hints of Oak and Nuts and Pepper coating his mouth. 

He let out a soft groan. 

John looked up over the rim of the glass, right into the galaxies inside the vampire's eyes who was leaning close, watching every breath that his donor took.  
The man smiled and flicked out his tongue teasingly, licking up some of the droplets that hung to the top of the glass and Sherlock hissed at him, pupils dilating.

“Are you hungry, Sherlock?”

There was a huff of breath, but no answer.  
John could read it in his face though, could smell it in his blood.  
He could _feel_ it. 

“So am I. Wanna buy me dinner?”

Sherlock looked taken aback, but then he grinned as well. 

They did not go out, the tall vampire too impatient to sit in a restaurant for any other reason than solving a crime, but he called a friend who delivered a hearty lamb stew with potatoes and vegetables along with a heavy chocolate cake, frowning at John's mocking that the dishes did not really go together. 

“It will make you taste even sweeter...” was his grumbling response, and John had laughed once more, pouring himself another glass of the sinfully good Scotch, taking his time eating his dinner, licking clean his forks at the decadence of the food and drink. 

He had a nice buzz going by the time he was finished.

Sherlock looked like he was ready to pounce him. 

He stared at John who was taking another sip, then the man, still sitting in his arm chair, opened the top buttons of his shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing the silver chain with the dog tags underneath, bowing his head to the side. 

“Come on then, Mr. Impatient.”

Sherlock pounced. 

He was upon John in less than a second, fingers curling around the man's golden skin of his neck, bowing him further, licking a long stripe from the dip of his throat all the way up to where his blood pounded under his skin where the chin meets the neck, and then Sherlock bit.

Hard. 

He groaned at the new tastes of lamb mixed with Whiskey and chocolate, and then Sherlock did what he had not done in months.  
He injected a tiny amount of pleasure into John Watson. 

He did not think that his donor noted, but he could see the pupils dilate slowly as he pulled back, licking his lips.

“Undress yourself”, Sherlock whispered.

John stared at him for a moment, then he nodded his head, slowly, eyes still fixed on the vampire kneeling between his legs.  
He continued opening the buttons of his shirt, having opted for this instead of a sweater today, revealing naked skin, golden flecks of hair gleaming on his chest and stomach. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders, and by now Sherlock had leaned down and opened the man's belt with nimble fingers.

John froze. 

“Sherlock....” he whispered. 

“Don't worry, John, I am not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

He waited for a moment for the man to relax, and then Sherlock dove forward, licking the stray golden hair that dusted John's stomach, a trail leading down towards his groin still covered by his trousers.  
The vampire tongued at his navel, flicking his tongue out to lick at the hot skin, hearing the hiss that John pulled in between his teeth. 

“Sherlock....” the man mumbled again, his hands digging into his master's curly hair, and the vampire took it as a green light to go on with what he was doing, forcing himself to slow his movements as he opened John's trousers, pulling down the zipper.

John lifted his bottom off the chair to allow Sherlock to strip him down to his pants, and the vampire saw the large bulge of an erection in front of him, the hot, musky smell of _wantneedsexhunger_ drifting up to his nostrils, and Sherlock burrowed his face between John's legs.  
He licked the man's hardening prick through the layer of fabric separating them, drawing a loud groan from John above him, and then he pulled the pants down with a sharp snap and without a second thought took John's cock into his mouth. 

It was glorious. 

He had to make sure to sheath his teeth to not scrape the fragile skin beneath him, but while he had been able to feel and taste Watson for so many months now, he had not been able to taste him _there_ , not been able to inhale the musk or relish in the passion that was so much thicker between the man's legs than anywhere else. 

Sherlock lapped at the thick head and then pursed his lips and shuffled forward, straightening his neck while going down, swallowing the whole of John's cock in one go.  
John growled above him, and the hands in his hair pushed him down further and then held him in place, when he was fully sheathed in Sherlock's cold mouth and tight throat, forcing him to stay in place and the vampire could not keep his own groan of arousal from vibrating around the cock. 

They stayed like this for a moment, and then John released his grip and Sherlock could draw back, swirling his tongue around soft flesh, tasting, taking in, _wanting_.

And Sherlock worshiped all that John was. 

He licked and suckled, dove down and pulled back, twirled his tongue and played his donor like his violin, like an instrument, soaking in the different sounds and twists of the body he could produce just with his mouth. 

Finally he pulled off, staring into the darkened eyes of John Watson who was by now breathing heavily, and then he started to unbutton his own shirt, slowly. 

Lust flamed up in the face of his donor, and he drank it in. 

“I want you to fuck me, John.”

His voice was dark and husky and instead of flinching or drawing back, John started to pant, his hands now stroking Sherlock's hair softly, and he could feel the approval in the energy that flew between them. 

Quickly Sherlock stood and shrugged off his clothes, standing naked in front of the man, and then he turned to present himself to the John, leaning over the coffee table, arse in the air. 

“Take me, John.”

He tried not to whine, but he did, and there was a pause behind him before he could feel hot hands running over his skin, his spine and his flanks, and then John was pressing hot kisses into his back as he leaned in closely. 

There was no further need for communication, and quickly John had a bottle of lube in his hand, opening it with a pop, and Sherlock could feel slippery fingers on his hole, circling it, before one of them pushed into him without another question. 

He gasped. 

This was what he wanted, what he needed, what he had been waiting for for such a very long time. 

John took his time stretching him as he leaned over his back, slipping the finger in and out of the tight hole as his other hand caressed Sherlock's soft curls, his mouth ghosting along the neck and the dip of his spine, running his warm tongue along cold flesh, raising goose pimples on Sherlock's skin. 

“Need you now, John....”

John groaned behind them, leaning close once more as he slit in another finger, pushing both in all the way.

“You are still too tight, I need to prepare you more....”

Sherlock bucked under him, spreading his legs wider and throwing his head back as he pushed back into the fingers, trying to get them to go deeper, open him faster.

“I like the pain, John. I _need_ it.  
Do it. Do it NOW.”

John bit Sherlock hard just above the shoulder blade, then pulled his fingers out before he slathered his thick cock with more lube and pressing it at Sherlock's tight, furled entrance. 

“As you wish, _Master_.”

He stabilized Sherlock with his hands on his hips, and then he pushed in, holding his breath as his cock slid past the two tight barriers and continued going, his fat cock a deliciously rough on Sherlock's cold, tight innards.

“Harder, John, harder.”

“Shut the fuck up”. The soothing voice belied the choice of words as he continued to glide into Sherlock's tight body, slow and patient but without stopping until he was fully sheathed, balls slapping against the vampire's spread arse.

John held there, breathing heavily as he rested his head against his masters back, Sherlock wiggling impatiently beneath him to get him to move, receiving a sharp slap for his efforts as John's fingers dug harder into his hips, holding him tight. 

“Don't fucking move.”

They both knew that if Sherlock wanted to do something, _anything_ , he could, his power far superior than any man's but instead he keened and arched his back wantonly, bending his head back further until John released one of his hands from his hips and dug them into the black curls once more.  
He leaned forward, grinding deeper and harder into Sherlock's arse, giving a sharp tug at the hair caught between his fingers so he could reach the vampire's mouth, pressing a hot, needy kiss against Sherlock's lips. 

They slid together, tongues twirling against each other while John slowly rotated his hips, his cock shifting within Sherlock, pressing against his sensitive walls inside, and then he released the kiss and drew his cock back almost all the way before fucking back in with a snap of his hips. 

Sherlock shouted at the sudden movement and pressed his head back down in the table, the fist in his hair now holding him down, and John Watson started to move. 

He fucked him long and hard, pulling out almost all the way before pressing back in, the insufficient preparation making Sherlock's hole impossibly tight around him, but the lube allowing him to slip in and out without any hesitation. 

He heard Sherlock whine “Harder, harder John” and he followed the order, pressing the vampire's legs further open with both hands and keeping him in place, leaning back to watch his own cock disappear between the clenching white globes, the contrast between his deep red cock and the alabaster of Sherlock's skin mesmerizing. 

He fucked for what felt like hours, speeding up to punish the body beneath him, then slowing down to watch his cock almost slip out of the tight clench, pressing back in slowly, smacking Sherlock when he tried to shift back, chastening him for his misdemeanor. 

Finally he pulled out, giving the white skin another slap, loving the redness it left in it's wake. 

“On your back now, Sherlock.”

The vampire pushed himself up before he turned and laid back down, pulling his knees up to his chest to give John the full view, open and pliant beneath him, and John took what was offered, guiding his cock back into his master, pressing in hard and fast, grinning at the sharp howl that escaped Sherlock's lips. 

He leaned in, lifting the long, pale legs over his shoulders before he pressed down all the way, caging the vampire under him and then he fucked in earnest, in and out, the slick slap-slap-slap resounding through the room, underlined by John's heavy breathing and Sherlock's occasional growls and whimpers. 

John took Sherlock's hair into both his hands once more, pulling him back sharply, creating another arch in the vampire's back and then he bit hard into his neck until he tasted blood, _his own fucking blood_ , pounding in and out brutally, and Sherlock came with a shout, without ever having been touched, pulsing cold seed between them.

“Bite, need to bite.... _John_....” he was positively whining now as the man fucked him roughly through his orgasm, never slowing down, and his eyes fluttered open just to see an evil grin spreading over John's features. 

“I am not ready for that yet, Sherlock.”

He relished the low sob and the rhythmical tightening on his cock, fucking harder and harder, and then he could feel the orgasm low in his spine, collecting himself.  
He leaned in, pulling Sherlock forward, fist still in hair. 

“Now.”

And Sherlock nuzzled his neck before he bit hard once more, drawing John over the edge as he came in long, hot spurts into Sherlock's cold cavity, the vampire whimpering and the man growling in bliss.  
Sherlock drank and drank, and then finally he was pulled back from the hand on his hair as John collapsed on top of him, breathing heavy, still buried deep within the vampire's ass. 

They stayed like this for the better of 5 min, just breathing, John's head resting on Sherlock's chest, neither of them saying anything.

 

It had been 8 months before John had finally fucked Sherlock. 

An eternity. 

And no time at all.


	34. Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am telling you guys, this chapter.  
> Most of these ideas I have been working on for months, spread over diaries and documents and now I _just_ had to put them together.  
>  So I swear to God, it was like a huge fricking Jigg-Jaw puzzle that had to be put in the right order, and it took me forever to do so. 
> 
> Hope you like it. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

Life went on.

A month passed. 

And another. 

John never found out that Sherlock had injected him with a small amount of pleasure that night he fucked the vampire that very first time, and there was hardly any aftermath expect for the man feeling a little under the weather the next day.  
The amount itself had been miniscule, just enough to tip John over the edge into passion, and it worked just as Sherlock had predicted, had planned for that evening. 

After that,Sherlock never used pleasure on John again. 

He did not need to. 

 

John mentally pulled back from Sherlock after that night, a little amount of depression to be expected from the vampire's venom, and Sherlock allowed him the time he needed. 

But about 3 feeding times later the vampire pulled John close, and the doctor did not fight when Sherlock started to pull off his clothes and offered himself to be taken on the carpet.  
Sherlock was gentle, pressing long limbs against the man, writhing in his arms like a snake as they kissed long and deep, and to John it was perversely close to making love that night. 

 

Sex helped John Watson forget where he was.  
Who he was. 

If even just for a little while. 

 

x

 

The 19th of July came and went, one full year since the revolution, since freedom, and John needed a week to reflect on how his life had changed, who he was, why he was here.  
He snapped at Sherlock when he got to close and stayed stiff and unresponsive in his arms when he fed. 

Time was going by, and there was nothing John could do to stop it. 

 

Days passed.

Weeks.

Months.

 

John realized that he was now in something like a relationship with Sherlock. 

 

He would marvel at the centuries-old vampire climbing over furniture or sassing at at the police when they were particularly slow at understanding him, he raveled at the immensity of Sherlock' knowledge and imagination, and he was astounded by his total lack of awareness of things EVERYONE knew, from the solar system to simple etiquette or that there had actually been a queen, not a king, when Mycroft murdered her.

It led to many interesting discussions. 

When John first had met him, Sherlock had been a cold, calculating being without any thought or pity for the human race, and while he still failed to see any kind of reason why humans and vampires should be equals, their discussions on the subject started to become more frequent, and Sherlock listened to John's arguments more closely before shooting them down with a sneer. 

But he did not punish John for his views. 

He liked his donors reasoning and his wit as well as human point of view that he often failed to see.  
Over time it took him longer and longer to shoot them down, and John saw that as a progress. 

 

Summer turned into Fall.  
Fall into Winter.

 

There were cases they worked on, some of them boring but others mind- blowingly fascinating, and John made a hobby of typing down the cases, saving them in folders on his computer, planing a book in the back of his head.  
Not that it would ever happen.  
But it gave him something to do.

Sherlock would not allow him to publish his stories on the internet, because he feared that Mycroft would take John away or at the very least rip his head off.  
There were appearances to be upheld, and as one of the elder vampires in the greater London area as well as a brother of the current leader, they could not have him debase himself by being written about candidly by his bound-servant.

Whatever.

John still enjoyed it. 

 

Spring.  
Summer.  
Fall.  
Winter.

 

Sometimes Sherlock walked too close, held too tight, running his fingers over John's ash-blond hair or staring at him from across the room, eyes never wavering.  
Sherlock was not one for small, loving gestures.  
So when they happened, they weighed so much heavier on John's mind. 

 

New year. 

 

Mycroft Holmes passed a law that made it mandatory to have all high-profile donors chipped and tagged with a small device that was to be implanted under the skin.  
It was the second roll-up for the Bound-Servant law.  
GPS tacking. 

John had felt the anger rise like dark smoke inside of him when Sherlock handed him the letter, hands fisting at his sides at just one more humiliation, one more thing he had to go through while trying to pretend that everything was all right. 

But again, appearances were everything and John was tight as a spring when they took the cab to the nearest chipping station, a medical office in the midst of town.  
A large, gray building, too new and designed with too little care to be anything than ugly.  
The revolution had changed the face of the city and it reflected well on John' mood. 

They did not wait long in the small, white waiting room, where the walls were covered with prints of Monet and Picasso, John cracking his knuckles in the silence of the room.  
Sherlock has been stiff as a board, but when they were called in he was the first one to rise, focusing on the shoes of his bound-servant as he waited for him, trailing behind as the nurse led them to the chipping room. 

It took less than two minutes, Sherlock pointing to John's left shoulder, there was the cold swap of the alcohol and the pinch of a numbing injection before the larger needle with the GPS was pushed under his skin. 

It left John with an angry burn in the pit of his stomach and the constant reminder of risen skin that he was not a free man. 

 

The first two weeks after that John was so angry at Sherlock, he would only allow him to feed from him, nothing else. He would pull his sweater a little lower to free his throat, leaning to the side, mouth clenched tight. 

“Do your thing and then go.”

That night though it seemed that Sherlock thought John had enough. 

“I did not make rules, John. I am sorry about this, but it was not my decision.”

John closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.  
His fingers massaged his temples before he finally spoke”  
“Why did you have to place it in the shoulder?”

Sherlock blinked, confused by the sudden change of subject.  
“What?”

“The shoulder, Sherlock, why the shoulder? I can _feel_ it like a grain of rice under my skin when I lean back into a chair. It's _visible_.  
Why not the arm pit or a hip, or something?”

Sherlock blinked.  
“Vampire's have always placed the sign of their property on the left shoulder of their slaves or bound-servants. It has always been this way.”

John's mouth set in a tight line, his eyebrows rising. 

“I am sure they used to mark with tattoos or brandings, yes? Why the hell do the same with GPS?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hissing.” I don't know John, it's just always been this way and vampire's stick to traditions. Anyway, it's an international recognized way of marking property for thousands of years, and now donors can be scanned without wondering where the hell the GPS might be located. 

“If all of the GPS would have been placed at the same part...”

“You don't understand, John. Vampires are traditionalists. Unless there is a really, _really_ good reason for something to change, it doesn't.”

“But this placement is uncomfortable.”

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted, hands in the air, eyes squeezed tight.  
'When will you understand that humans are not worth that consideration? Humans are just slaves, animals, that is the point of view, and that will not change.”

John stood, giving a short, sharp nod. 

“Of course, I am sorry, I keep forgetting.”

 

Sherlock did not get to feed at all for a week after that. 

However, it brought along new, this time heated discussions of the old vampiric laws regarding humans and the new policies that Mycroft released, how the new governments were going back to a system of enslaving people instead of giving them any kind of lee-way. 

The net for high-profile bound-servants was getting tighter and tighter and John felt like screaming out his frustration. 

 

A few nights later Sherlock gave him a riding crop with a silver handle. 

It helped, if only a little. 

 

Spring.  
Summer.  
Fall. 

 

Harry was released, and a grumpy Sherlock allowed John to go take a train to see her and his parents.  
He had two days with his family, which involved a lot of crying and hugging, but he was well aware of the posh car at the end of the street and the two men in black suits monitoring him. 

It angered and scared him.  
He did not tell his family. 

 

Sherlock was sitting in the arm chair when John got home, and the man stood in the doorway for a couple of moments, staring at the vampire who was looking up from a newspaper he had been reading. 

John lowered his suit case slowly, opening his jacket with slow, controlled motions.  
“Strip and wait on the bed for me, face down.”

Sherlock had stared at him for another moment, frozen, a dark red flush bleeding up from around his collar. 

Then he did just that. 

 

 

Yes.  
John would call it something of a relationship. 

 

X

Apart from the sporadic cases that Lestrade would push their way there was little else to do, and John was almost grateful when Mycroft ordered Sherlock to produce more results regarding his bound-servant research.  
He claimed he needed it for a congress, and Sherlock had fought for days, hissing at the phone, sulking on his sofa when Mycroft was finally forced to appear in Baker Street himself.

Sherlock did not ask John to leave the room so he stayed, offering Mycroft a cup of tea and leaning back, watching the power struggle between the two feuding siblings.  
Mycroft drove a hard bargain but at the same time, so did Sherlock, and in the end they came to a result.

Sherlock would have to extend his results with at least 10 more donor-matches and give a talk at the next vampire congress to present his findings.  
Mycroft on the other hand would ensure that John's stay with Sherlock was secure as well as release him from any sort of political responsibility for the next 50 years. 

 

That night Sherlock grudgingly admitted that he was an elder in the vampire community in the Greater London Area and therefore bound by law to partake in government, something he had been able to escape in the general disorder of the revolution.  
But the current government was by now up and running once more, and the younger Holmes could no longer dodge his responsibilities. 

Expect, now he could. 

 

Sherlock asked John to help him research. 

In the end the job to run all the laboratory work fell to John, who enjoyed being back in the lab and with a purpose to his day. Sherlock would spend his time in the morgue or blood bank, flitting in and out of the labs like a moth or over-exited otter, but it somehow felt like home. 

 

It was a good compromise and worked for both of them. 

 

Winter.

Fall. 

Summer. 

 

Sherlock had been invited to a Vampire conference in Berlin, one of the yearly meetings of the vampire leaders of the World states to discuss politics and behavior. 

This time there was a special focus on human rights. 

Mycroft had warned Sherlock that he would need to give a talk, John helping by writing the power point presentation and creating a summary of the findings.  
The week before the meeting John could _feel_ Sherlock being more restless than usual, and he suggested that the vampire could give the presentation to him, as a sort of practice. 

Sherlock sneered at the idea, but in the end gave in and presented in an utterly chaotic fashion that soon ended in insulting John and his ancestors, the church and the whole of America.  
John laughed until his belly hurt, just imagining how the oldest, most prestigious vampires of the world would react to a lesson by Sherlock Holmes. 

 

They packed a day in advance, and John was excited, never having been to Berlin

 

On the way to the airport Sherlock gave him a round-up of the conference, which mainly consisted of rules for John. He was to be in the same room as Sherlock over nights, but during the day the humans and vampires would be separated for security reasons, a bound-servant room available to wait during the conference.  
They could meet up during lunch hour and after the conference was over in the evening.

John had snorted, and Sherlock grinned at the disgusted face of his donor. 

“You realize I am not going to sit and wait for you all day when I am in Berlin, right?”

Sherlock smiled, however it did not reach his eyes. 

“If you want to go out and explore that's fine with me. However you need to know that the law in Germany for Bound-Servants are very clear, and as they have no GPS tracking yet, I need to collar you once more. 

John grit his teeth, raising his eyes slowly to look at the vampire opposite of him. 

“You can't be serious.”

He tried very hard to stay calm. 

“It's the rules, John, and Mycroft only allowed me take you if we comply. But it's just for a couple of days, and as I said, it's the rules, it's a vampire convention, you will hardly be the only one. 

At that moment John was very glad that they had brought the riding crop along. 

 

Even though the bronze collar was still as wide and embarrassing as he remembered it, John had his mind set on not having it ruin his time. He knew it would, in a way, but he would be even more angry at himself if he finally got to leave London and instead of seeing a new city waited for Sherlock in a waiting room with magazines and finger food. 

John put on khaki pants and a white, tight T-shirt, the bronze collar underlining his golden hair and blue eyes, and Sherlock had grabbed his ass and squeezed tight, letting his hands run along the donors body.  
“I want to eat you _alive_ ” he purred into the donors ear, and John grinned at the obvious hunger in his vampires eyes. 

He gave him a light slap and told him to wait for the evening. 

x

 

The conference was placed in the middle of the city, and a hop-on-hop-off bus stopped right outside their hotel, which was as good as any vacation could start.  
John enjoyed the bright summer sun, taking pictures of old buildings, letting his mind soak in the idea of just being a tourist.

People stared at his collar, but they did not comment, which probably had to do with the case that there was a vampire conference in town and police was everywhere. 

At one of the War memorials an elder lady walked up to him and placed her hand on his naked arm, tears shining in her eyes.  
He had nodded at her and afterwards ate a sausage in a bun and drank a beer and forced himself not to think about what had happened.

Berlin, being a monument of a divided country had many memorials and museums for WWII, and John would spend hours reading about the past, about Jews being classified a lower form of humans, their rights revoked, their lives taken.  
At one point he stood in the corner of a museum, staring at video footage and started to weep, the realization that history would always repeat itself overwhelming. 

x

 

On the third day was Sherlock's talk. 

 

The vampire had been an unbearable little prat the day before , and John beat him with the riding crop until his shoulder hurt and then fucked him without preparation, just to make him shut up.  
Sherlock had howled and bucked and whined, and he had come hard without being touched when John fucked into him.  
John later whispered to him that he could now focus on the burn in his ass if he needed to be distracted from idiots, and Sherlock had chuckled and fell asleep leaning against his chest.  
And he wished he could be a mouse in the room the next day, just to listen to the insults. 

It was the last talk before the lunch break, and John had deduced that he should probably wait out the hour in the waiting room, just in case Sherlock would be done after 5 minutes or manage to set the room on fire. So he was there early, him and roughly 75 other donors waiting around, picking at finger food, some reading, other listening to music. 

They did not talk to each other.  
They knew their place.

 

John had just helped himself to a complimentary drink and snack when the bomb went off. 

It was utterly unexpected. 

The blast ripped the wooden door to the conference room to pieces, shard falling and injuring some standing close as smoke billowed into the room.  
There were screams and howling around him, but John could not concentrate as a wave of pain blossomed inside his head.

_Sherlock_

Slowly he got up from his knees, his ears ringing from the explosion and stepped towards the door, staring at the splintered remnants, dark oily smoke seeping towards him from the inside.

It was devastation. 

The bomb must have been placed close to the center of the room, where all the tables had been turned towards the speaker in the front, and there was a clear circle where everything had been ripped apart.  
He blinked, eyes wandering before he felt a sharp push at his side, and then men and women pressed past him, shooting into the crowd of screaming vampires, and John fell down once more.

Someone helped him up, blue eyes under a cap fixing on his collar, and then a gun was pressed into his hand. 

“Good luck, my friend.”

Another attack. 

Another revolution. 

 

John blinked, once twice, and then another wave of pain flooded over him, not his own but close enough to get him scrambling. He could _hear_ Sherlock screeching inside his head, shaking at the pain and shock of being wounded, and John did not think as the stepped inside and turned towards the front. 

He was not as good as Sherlock, could not feel _where_ his vampire was just from their mental connection, but it had been his time of the talk, he would find him there, on the stage....  
There were body parts and wounded everywhere, and horror struck him when he realized that he was surrounded by hurt and potentially dangerous vampires that had needed to feed, and he clutched the gun in his hands, happy for the small feeling of safety it supplied. 

He kept his head close to the floor as the fires around him started to spread, holding the gun with both hands as he reached the stage and just as he predicted, Sherlock was there, laying on his back, long legs splayed before him, his chest sporting a large hole that sluggishly pumped blood over his purple shirt.  
The vampire did not move, breathing in short, pained gasps, and John climbed the stage to crawl to him, to check his wounds, to feed him....

He was stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder, pulled back and turned around.  
John lifted his gun with a growl, aiming it at the person opposite him. 

“No, I am Human, don't shoot!” 

The blond woman lifted her hood in a fluid motion, opening her mouth to show that she was not sporting fangs. 

“He is wounded, I need to help him...” John could hear himself babble, as if he was floating a meter above his own head. Everything seemed surreal. 

There were screams and shooting all around them, covered in the cloak of smoke and now fire that had started to spread around the room.  
The woman gave the vampire a short look, then she focused on John once more. 

“Is that your Master?”

John swallowed. “Yes. I need to help him, he is in pain.”

The woman turned at another gun shot behind her, then she gripped John's shoulders once more. 

“What is your name?”

John swallowed. The pain that Sherlock radiated in his head was incredible.

“John.”

“Listen, John, we are here to free ourselves. Leave him. Or kill him. But we have to go, right now.”

She gave him another squeeze, and then John turned towards Sherlock, who had by now realized that his donor was close and had lifted his head, blood pouring from his mouth in red spurts, _his own blood_ , and the need and hunger jumped him like electricity. 

“John”, Sherlock whispered.

John stared. 

“I am sorry, Sherlock.”

He turned, and the woman took his hand and nodded, and then pulled him through the smoke towards the entrance. 

They made it out of the building where they jumped into a car that she had, she turned the engine and started down the road.

 

He was free. 

 

God help him, he was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I breaking your hearts yet?


	35. The end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, here it is. The end.  
> I had this chapter done months ago, I hope you like it.  
> I would like to thank everyone that left kudos or even commented, please know that these were the reasons for me to continue writing! Also, this AU is obviously close to my heart, and there are more stories slumbering in my brain, but for now I want to write two other stories (one for Thor, one for Sherlock), so if there will ever be an encore it will probably take a while.  
> Now, if you are a fellow tumblerite and like porn, Sherlock, Tom Hiddleston and snarky comments, please feel free to follow me under cumberbitch07.tumblr.com!
> 
> Love you all!
> 
>  
> 
> x

They ran for almost 9 months.  
Never stopping.  
Always on the move. 

 

The blond woman that had taken John's hand at the bomb attack and led him into freedom was called Mary.  
She has been calm and decisive, first taken him to a hidden headquarters where she had produced a wire cutter to remove his collar and then a small scalpel to cut out his GPS. 

John had hissed at the sudden pain, but had been glad at feeling free for the first time in years. 

Free. 

About half an hour later Mary had quickly collected baggage and other items, piled 2 more fellow freedom fighters into her car, and then they drove off. 

They did not stop driving for months.

 

The newest revolutionary attacks were once more spread world-wide but much less connected, the tough new laws and communication restrictions between bound-servants and sympathizers had been hard and most of the time even impossible.  
The revolutionaries had waited for the vampiric leaders to accumulate, planted a bomb filled with wooden shards and silver to explode among the most important. 

They had created chaos and then they ran. 

 

As refugees they used boats, avoided borders, made their way from Russia through Mongolia and China, without a plan, just to keep moving. They had no radio, phones or other forms of communication, nothing that could be used to track them.

They stayed as far off the track as they could, and somehow, it worked. 

John stayed quiet, listening and hoping, cursing the radio stations that would read news in heavy tongues, surprised and happy when Mary could translate.  
He had no money or any way to pay for his travels, but Mary would wave at his silent excuses,and they found need for his medical knowledge on the way, and otherwise he would do what he was asked to do. 

Mary had stolen a large amount of cash from her own vampiric master, and she did not care that there was little that John could contribute. 

And they continued to run.

 

Few of the vampires had survived the bomb attack. 

The names of the survivors that they heard about were Holmes, Tze Jian and Jones, John feeling an ache in his heart when he realized that when they mentioned Holmes they probably spoke of Mycroft and not Sherlock. He mourned in private, but he could feel Mary's eyes on him, and he placed a mask over his face, hiding his feelings to himself. 

Finally, in Malaysia, someone mentioned Sherlock. 

 

It was from a man they had been able to stay with for a few days, refreshing their food supplies, the sympathizer helping them to book places on a container boat to South America.  
He had a British newspaper, and it listed some of the current vampire's in power.  
John had been hungry for information for months, and even though he had little hope he scanned the names only to find him down towards the bottom.

Sherlock Holmes – Human Affairs. 

John let out a mixture between a sob and a laugh, and Mary brought him back into the present with a soft touch on his arm.

“He is alive.”

Mary said nothing.

“He is going to find me.”

 

She took him into her arms and held him as John started to sob, not sure if relieved for Sherlock being alive and well or the knowledge that he would hunt John down until either one of them was dead. 

And he would find him.  
He was Sherlock Holmes. 

 

Mary had been quiet when she took the quietly sobbing man into her bed, and for the first time in 9 years he made love to a woman, sweet, soothing love with soft kisses, mouthing her perk nipples as he stroked her sweet flesh, and it was so good and it felt so right, and John weeped as they moved in a slow rhythm against each other. 

That night she soothed him when he woke up screaming from his nightmares, and she held him tight until he fell asleep again. 

x

 

In Argentina Mary made it clear that she was sick of running. 

It was in a small town close to the ocean, and Mary turned to him and told him that they would stay here.  
It had not been a question, but a calm statement, and John had no energy left to argue.  
They bid farewell to their fellow travelers, knowing well that they would probably never see them again. 

Mary led him into town where she used her hands to talk to the locals, her kind face and soothing manners helpful as they bought what they thought they needed, cooking utensils, building equipment, seeds, a horse, a young goat as well as three hens and a rooster. 

Then they took a road leading away from the sea towards the mountains.

The couple walked for a week with the animals in tow until they found an old, empty house with sturdy walls and an overgrown former vegetable garden, hidden away. 

And they had rebuild and made this little part of the world their own. 

 

John continued to wait for Sherlock to come and take him back. 

Day after day.  
Night after night.

Sometimes he screamed, shooting up from between the pillows, gasping for air as Mary soothed him, pulling him close and cradling him in the darkness, watching over his uneasy sleep. 

Other times John woke, aroused, hazy dreams of his tall, lanky lover, so different from the soft woman beside him. And he would try to stifle his sobs, his heart aching for a loss that made no sense. 

 

Months passed. 

Then years. 

 

John’s first patient had been a boy who had fallen as he tended the cows, a clean break of his wrist, close to their house.  
Mary had heard the crying child and they found him, John setting the break and tending the wound as the woman soothed the sobbing boy. 

 

After that the people came to him, if slowly.

 

They came to him from within a 4 days radius, and John started tending old wounds that had never healed, pulled rotten teeth, soothing old and new aches. 

His patients taught him fragments of their language and paid him in food and seeds, chickens and cloth. 

Mary took care of their house, one of her hobbies the indulgence of a flower garden in the back, the tropical colours attracting bees and all sorts of insects.  
Their garden was a fertile one. 

 

And Sherlock did not come.

 

The years went by, summer after summer, winter after winter.

 

There were no children. 

Mary never talked about her time as a bound-servant, but John was sure that her infertility had something to do with it. 

It was fine. 

Not the right planet for children anyway. 

 

For a while, John taught two teenage girls and one boy how to set bone, heal burns, sew flesh. They sometimes stayed with John and Mary for weeks, and the small cottage would be filled with their laughter.

x

 

They got older. 

Joints started to hurt.

And John slept easier at night. 

Just once every month or so, there would be a shadow in the back of his mind, hidden in his dreams, but it got easier and easier to fight them down. 

x

 

Then Mary died. 

She was 69.  
Healthy as horse as John liked to say.  
A stroke. 

John buried his partner by himself, in the afternoon sun, taking many breaks to rest and drink water, and in the middle of the night he finally lowered her down into the grave, kissing her forehead and covering her chest with the flowers she had so loved, then filling the grave slowly, shovel by shovel, breath by breath. 

When the morning came, he was done. 

He visited her every morning to talk.

And the weeks and months went by.

 

X

x

 

The sun had been up for about an hour and John slowly put on his clothes, rubbing his fingers against the constant dull pain that the arthritis gave to him. He pulled the large straw hat from the hook next to the entrance and went to the stable where he saddled the small donkey that had been with him for the last 5 years. 

By the time John had finished saddling Jicha he patted her neck and then turned slowly at the shadow that was blocking the sun from the entryway. 

 

Sherlock had not aged a day (of course he had not), face incredibly young for such an old, cruel body. 

John did not start at the sight. 

He had expected Sherlock to find him.  
He had been waiting for more than 30 years. 

“You have bees. ”  
Sherlock’s voice was still as smooth as honey and dark as rich chocolate. 

John nodded, curt, abrupt.  
His hands flexed on the old, smooth bridal in his hands. He dropped it and gave Jicha slap on her rump, offering her to search for grass while John was talking.  
If Sherlock was here for talking. 

“You are so old.” Sherlock’s voice seemed so young, youthful with wonder. 

The vampire had not stepped up, but John could feel Sherlock shifting in his shoes, too shiny and well-cut for the climate out here. 

John snorted a laugh and wiped his forehead, already slick with sweat in the rising sun.  
It would be hot today.  
Which meant he would have to tend the flowers in Mary’s garden. 

“Yes. Human’s age, Sherlock.”

Nothing else to say really.  
He did not talk too much these days. 

“It was not easy to find you. You managed to cover yourself well. “

John rose his head, squinting his eyes. 

A pressure on his heart he had carried for so many years had released the moment Sherlock had stepped into the light.  
John had always known that Sherlock would come for him.  
Always. 

He also had always known what Sherlock was capable off. 

“Sherlock-“ The name, so foreign now on this tongue – “you have known for a long time where I was.”

Sherlock stood still, starring at him.  
Observing.  
Reading. 

John knew the vampire was reading his life, etched into his skin. 

He sighed.  
“What do you want?” 

He was tired.  
He had waited for this moment so very long. 

Sherlock shifted, a small, highly regulated movement as he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, handing it silently to John. 

Just like the old days. 

John shook his head.  
“I don’t want to read and deduce it. Tell me what you want or leave.”

“I am here to turn you.”

John let out a long, painful exhale he had not known he had been holding.  
It felt like he had held it for decades. 

“Why?”

Sherlock stepped closer, still not crowding but now in arm’s reach.  
Even for an old man.

“I am in the world council now, John. I am important. And it is run by very old vampires. Someone needs to speak for the humans, John. At the moment, the few voices that speak up are far and few between, our race too old and over-indulgent to hear them.  
Humans are nothing but cattle to us, just like you had always said.  
And I don't have the patience to do what needs to be done.  
But I have been watching, John.  
For you.  
And I learned. We need more voices speaking up for the humans. Because otherwise they will rise again and again.“

 

It was a practiced speak.

John was sure that Sherlock had been working on it for weeks, if not years. 

He closed his eyes, lowering his head.  
Tired. 

“Sherlock, you can speak to them.”

“I am not human, John. I am not sure I ever really was. I lost my humanity many centuries ago.”

“Why would they listen to a freshly turned vampire?”

“Oh, they wont. Not now. But in 50 years, John, in 100, if you can manage to hold on to your humanity so long, you can do something. You can speak up for the ones that can’t for themselves. You will be able to talk about both sides.  
You will be able to make them listen, John.  
Because that’s what you are.  
A romantic.”

Sherlock’s arm rose up slowly, settling steady against the sweaty, hot skin of the old man in front of him.  
John flinched, then tried not to lean into the cooling touch. 

He could not answer. 

Just nod. 

That was all he could do. 

 

And he ignored the pain that shot through him as Sherlock descended upon him, as he sank to his knees while the vampire drank him dry, while he was loosing everything human and alive. 

Mary. 

_Sherlock_

It was the last thought he had in his head, and then John Watson died.

 

The end.


End file.
